The Bells of Notre Dame
by PiecesOfRainbow7
Summary: Set a week after the Disney film's events, Margot Marchelier feels stifled by her restrictive life and with her brother, Phoebus, a hidden political refugee, she has nowhere to turn but adventure. OC/Clopin, lovely pairing :
1. Chapter 1:  A Brewing Storm

CHAPTER ONE

The bells of Notre Dame sang out their somber and knowing prayer. Sunlight dappled the square, but the air was not merry. Peasants shuffled nosily by, peering up at the cathedral in sorry curiosity as workmen set to rebuilding the beauteous columns and wizened gargoyles that had been smashed in last weeks… unpleasantness.

Rising above the terse crowds were guards mounted on black horses and wearing iron helmets. Their steely glares kept the nervous crowd from any mischief. From the church steps, two figures watched and talked.

"Order has been fully restored, _monsieur le Capitan_." The spindly guard peered discreetly at his superior for any response.

"Yes, Babin," said the other, larger man with a gravelly, sharp voice, "my predecessor may have been… lazy with the upholdings of holy law, but I assure you I am not prone to such wicked idleness."

"No, _monsieur_," Babin was frightened of the man next to him, and therefore could not gauge his own clout with him. Nevertheless, he proceeded to test the waters. "But, if you will pardon me, _monsieur_—" The Captain jerked his head to bear down on the inferior man with warning black eyes. Babin cautiously continued. "That is…" he gestured out at the square. "The people, they are usually happier, and after all, is it not our duty—"

"It is your duty, Babin, to follow orders," growled the Captain without fluster. "That is my expectation. Should you fail me, there will be consequences."

Babin gulped. "_Oui, monsieur le Capitan_."

* * *

"Now you see, I was right all along." Monsieur Marchelier dropped a kiss on his daughter's head as he made his way to his seat at the head of the table. "The city is an unsafe place."

"Yes, Father," exhaled Margot whilst discreetly rolling her eyes. She kept her attention rapt on her embroidery and deliberately avoided looking at her father, who had sat in his chair and was leaning to look out the window at the street below. Mimi, one of the servants, placed a dish of porridge in front of Margot and commented, "There you are, _mademoiselle_. Ooh, how lovely – a violet this time?"

"Yes!" Margot tilted her embroidery toward Mimi. "Glad its recognizable, thank you, Mimi!"

Mimi placed a bowl in front of Marchelier and moved away as quick as possible. Marchelier turned away from the window and caught sight of his breakfast.

"Oh, now Mimi, this porridge is far too milky, it'll fatten my daughter right up!"

"Oh, father, stop it," retaliated Margot in an unimpressed voice. "Food is food, we should be happy to eat it."

"My dear daughter, I am one of the most successful men in all of Paris. Food is nothing if not gourmet."

Margot started in on her breakfast. "If Phoebus were here, he'd eat the porridge all the same and you wouldn't even—"

"I told you not to say that name." Marchelier's voice was suddenly dangerous and deep. "You are the only child of mine, I'll not hear talk of anything else. Eat."

"Father, he's been gone a week!" Margot began to raise her voice. "We shouldn't be banishing him like he's some biblical criminal, we should—"

Marchelier stood up and there was a clatter of plates. "You watch yourself, madam. Don't you ever speak like that to me again – Mimi, I'll return when there's something half decent on the table." With that he strode out of the room and into his study.

There was an awkward pause as Mimi, frightened, stared at Margot from the corner. Margot caught sight of her father's upturned porridge bowl and immediately set to cleaning it up.

"No, _mademoiselle_, please, leave it to me—"

"Don't be silly, Mimi… and don't listen to a word he says. It was delicious."

"Oh, _mademoiselle—"_

"He's angry, Mimi. We all are. This is a difficult time, I'm sure he didn't really mean it." Margot only half believed herself.

Later that afternoon, she gazed out of her bedroom window at Paris, post-disaster. One week ago, a revolution of some sort had happened. Notre Dame had become a place of battle as the rounded-up Gypsies and the guards and the peasants all engaged in some kind of riot. Whispers shot through Paris of the misshapen bellringer, the hero, who had stopped the wicked Judge Frollo from carrying out his maniacal genocide. The city had rallied together for a cause of great good, but nothing is ever as simple as it seems, and as soon as it was over, some blamed the Gypsies for the trouble, while others took umbrage with the church. This spurred a period of heightened security, with a new Captain of the Guard appointed by the King himself to keep the city streets trouble-free. Margot had not witnessed the event herself – her father was irritatingly protective, and with Paris burning she was confined to the house. But Captain Phoebus had been there, and had fought valiantly on the side of justice. She knew this because some of the servants had been there, and she was very close with them.

The only problem was, after helping to save the city Phoebus had disappeared. The servants had said that he married a Gypsy woman and immediately gone underground. The new Captain was not one to suffer misconduct, and Phoebus was considered a treasonous deserter. Margot knew her brother was out there somewhere, hopefully unharmed, but she longed to know where.

The truth was, her father was not a bad man. After losing his wife to murderous street robbers, his paranoia was understandable. But Margot had a strong personality, and she felt smothered in her home. She had always looked up to Phoebus, and now more than ever she saw him as a paragon of bravery and adventure. Now, as she looked down at the dreary streets, she knew that she could not last cooped up in this swaddle for much longer.


	2. Chapter 2: Disguise and a Show

CHAPTER TWO

A week went by, and though the regime was much tighter, some of the usual merriment began to return. In short time the gypsies began to reappear, but only the bravest and most secure dared to venture around the city. One such gypsy was the puppeteer, Clopin. His cart appeared on the square one morning, much to the delight of the passersby, and the chagrin of the guard, and a show had begun by midmorning. The little children gathered on the ground for the show, though the parents stood nearby, seemingly poised to swoop up their young ones at any sign of trouble.

Moving through the crowd was a willowy figure shrouded in an inconspicuous brown dress and matching headdress, with an indiscernible veil pinned across her face to cover her mouth and nose. In wide-eyed wonder, Margot grinningly took in the reemerging color and activity in the square.

She knew she was in danger there, for Phoebus had a soiled reputation amongst the police and if she were found to be doing anything out of the ordinary, she, too, would be suspected as a revolutionary. The idea scared her, but it also frustrated her because she _wasn't_ a revolutionary – she was only an overly sheltered child with no spine! Well, not today. Today, though disguised, she strode the streets of Paris and observed the aftermath of the riot for herself.

When she came upon the puppet show, she stopped and watched with increasing amusement. The puppeteer was obviously a Gypsy, and was a laugh a minute. He wore a purple mask over his eyes and nose and a multi-colored jester's garb. The children hung upon his every word with delight. When the show was finished, Margot applauded with the rest and hung back for a while to watch the crowd dissipate. She wanted to drink in every color and every fleeting smile while she could – she only had twenty more minutes until her father came home for lunch and she would have to be found sat by the fire reading or embroidering.

Clopin packed up his show, feeling satisfied. He was a performer at heart, he lived for the applause. When he came out of his cart to pick up the gold coins, a young boy approached him.

"_Monsieur_!" Said the boy, meekly. Clopin waited a moment in expectation, but the boy was tongue-tied. Clopin knelt down to the boy's level.

"Ahhh, a small reveler! Oh—what is that! There is something shiny in your ear!" With affectionate ease, Clopin produced one of the shiny gold pennies from the boy's ear. The boy grinned broadly in amazement.

"How did you do that!"

"Oh, a magician never reveals his tricks! Watch again, I think I see another one!" He repeated his trick. As he did this, slowly so that the boy could catch on, he glanced briefly out at the court and caught sight of the veiled figure. She was completely covered, but for her eyes, which were blue. She was watching him with mild curiosity. Suddenly, he saw a young Gypsy boy sneak up behind her and snatch something out of her purse, which hung down by her knee from a long braided strap. For a moment, he considered stopping the boy but she had beat him to it. Adeptly, she grabbed the back of the boy's collar, not roughly, and pulled him back.

"Hey!" Margot scolded as she yanked the Gypsy boy back. He looked afraid but also defensive. Instead of punishing him, however, she brought her head close to his and spoke.

"It is a terrible thing to steal. You could be taking someone's only treasure!" The boy looked slightly shamed.

"Now, give me back my pennies, please." Reluctantly, the boy dumped the few pennies into her outstretched hand. "There, you see? And, because you were so well behaved, a token of my gratitude." Smilingly, she placed two of the pennies into his chubby hands and closed them. The boy grinned gratefully and ran away. She stood back up.

Clopin observed all of this as he performed his trick.

"There! Now, with enough practice, young sorcerer, you, too, can pluck coins out of your friends' ears!" The little boy ran away with his prizes. Clopin, too, stood back up. What he had seen amazed him in a way. This woman was clearly not a Gypsy, and from her veil he discerned that she was either a holy woman or a disguised member of nobility, both of which were not on good terms with the Gypsy people at the moment. The woman continued on her way toward Notre Dame and stood for a while, watching the builders. Eventually, she entered the building. Clopin, impressed, smiled to himself and returned to prepare for his next show.


	3. Chapter 3: Mimi's Amends

CHAPTER THREE

That night, Margot lay in bed and read her Chaucer.

"So, what did you see in the square today?" Mimi was putting folded clothes into the closet and making conversation. She was in her late twenties, and Margot knew she was married to a smith called Thomas and had a young toddler at home. Her mahogany hair was falling out of her bun and into her tired face. Margot watched her and felt a twinge of guilt – she knew that Mimi actually took pride in her job and wasn't resentful, but still, she ought to be home with her family.

"Well, it was exciting!" Margot put down her book. "I saw Mme. Thibodeaux peddling her pastries… and I saw a puppet show."

"Not the gypsy show!" Mimi came and sat at the end of Margot's bed.

"Yes, it's back in business! Mind you, the guards were watching it with little beady hawk eyes."

"I can only imagine." She moved closer and confided in a whisper, "Thom was at the riot, you know, and while Judge Claude Frollo may be gone, he was not alone in his sentiment. The new Captain of the Guard is hard as stone, he says!"

Margot thought for a while. The fireplace threw warm light about the room, giving it a comfortable, safe hue, but to Margot it felt like a punishment, a crucible.

"Are you alright, _mademoiselle_? You've been so distant lately."

"I'm sorry, Mimi, it's just –" she threw her covers off of her in exasperation. "Finishing school into a private governess into what feels like solitary confinement this last half-year – I feel that if I don't escape I'll explode!" Angry tears sprung to her eyes, but she didn't cry.

"Oh, _mademoiselle_," Mimi reached a cautious but comforting hand out to her friend, who took it gratefully. "I know it's been hard for you. You miss your friends… you miss your mother…" Margot looked up, sadly. "I know, Mar… and I'll be here for you as much as you need me. But there's only so much I can do."

"I know. Wait," She noticed that Mimi had a glint in her eye when she said the last thing. "What do you mean?"

"Well… and I'm saying this as your friend, not as your servant… you're one and twenty, Margot. You're not a baby. Now, your father's a good man, like you said. He loves you more than anything in this world or the next and he only wants what's best for you. But… well, sometimes in this world you just have to do what's best for you yourself."

There was a pause. Margot exhaled and the corners of her lips curled up ever so slightly.

"But," Mimi stood up, hands outstretched in a deferring manner, and picked up her laundry bag. "As a loyal mistress to this house, all I have to say is 'Goodnight,' and 'Don't wrinkle those freshly pressed clothes I just put in your closet.'" And with that she was gone.


	4. Chapter 4: Close, But No Cigar

Margot lay awake and thought for a long time. Mimi was right.

The hours passed and Margot tossed sleeplessly, eventually rising to the window. Her room was on the third floor, and over the roofs of the bakeries and trinket stores she could see the two majestic legs of Notre Dame reaching up to the heavens.

Then, she caught sight of herself in her looking glass. She certainly looked like a sheltered young debutante. Like her brother, she had golden hair that tumbled to just above the small of her back, and cornflower blue eyes that were striking, if not delicate. She was not a classic, nor a fashionable beauty, but ever since puberty she had taken a special and secret delight in her appearance, finding her oddities – her large, expressive eyes, her dusting of freckles, her less-than-nubile curves – pretty in a way, like a secret weapon. It hadn't always been that way. When she was fifteen at finishing school, next to graceful, swan-like, perfectly petite girls with no bosom and clear skin, she had certainly felt out of place. Now, at twenty-one, she had grown into her hourglass figure and expressive face to look less like a comedic opera character and more like a woman.

Now, she examined her hand-embroidered white nightgown and felt bored with herself.

She knew she wouldn't get any sleep that night – she was going to find her brother and that was that. Where he was, adventure surely would be, and for Margot, finding him meant freedom and salvation.

With a restless urgency that often accompanied the making of a decision, she untied the bow at her collar and threw open her closet door. On the shelves were her undergarments, folded neatly, but at the bottom was a basket that she did not recognize. Inside was a dark crimson tunic, similar tights and a matching cap, and a note, written in Mimi's warm handwriting:

_Margot –_

_ I got these from my brother, Jean… he's your age and, hopefully, your size!_

_ Remember, Mar, do what's best for you._

_ Mi._

"Oh, darling Mimi!" Margot swiftly slipped into the clothes without really knowing what she would do once she had them on.

When she did, she turned around to face the mirror and gasped in surprise. By the dimming firelight, she saw herself, only much jauntier! She liked it.

She wasn't quite rebellious enough to chop her hair off – that wasn't the point. Instead, she found a crimson ribbon amongst her embroidery materials and tied it up in a discreet knot before stuffing a cap over it.

She did not look very much like a man, but she felt like somebody brave.

Once she reached the square, having ducked through alleyways and around corners stealthily to avoid the guard (though probably putting herself in danger of a murkier crowd), she froze. It was heavily policed – guards easily strode across the square as though they were courtiers in the King's palace. Several, on horseback, stood stoic at the steps. Apparently they wished to prevent further vandalizing, but Margot narrowed her eyes from her hiding place within an indented doorway. At the top of the stairs and rising above the others sat a menacing man atop a black horse. He was clad in finer, more pronounced garments than the others, who all sported black tunics and helmets. This man's tunic was more militantly tailored, with black buttons gleaming in the flooding moonlight. He had a breast pocket out of which peeked a blood red handkerchief, and he wore no helmet, revealing grisly near-black hair held in a low ponytail. In size, he was monstrous. Granted, Margot was too far away to see further details, but she assumed this was the new Captain of the Guard she had heard tell of.

She felt like she wanted to cry. She had geared herself up for a real adventure, and now here she was, stuck in her tracks. She knew that the only person who could give a clue to her brother's whereabouts was the bell ringer that Mimi and the cook had been talking about. The only thing to do now, beyond midnight and surrounded by the prospect of arrest, was to return home. She did so, clenching her fists to brace herself against the waves of embarrassment and defeat that were crashing upon her.

Once back in her room, she angrily changed back into her nightgown and threw herself into bed with frustration. She lay awake almost the whole night, and when she did wake up from an hour's sleep as the sun began to pour through her window, she knew what she had to do.


	5. Chapter 5: Sunday Best

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, everyone! First of all, I want to apologize for the last chapter being a bit of a drag. I have a feeling this is going to be a long story! I promise I will get to Margot/Clopin stuff soon. I have some great ideas! There are just other plot points I want to pursue as well as the romance, so bear with me. I'll try to make it more interesting! _

_I also would like to say that I just found out (through Wikipedia, not by watching) that Clopin apparently gets together with someone called Chantal at the end of the sequel. Humph. Well, I want to state for the record that in my mind and in the world of this story, the second movie NEVER happened! Lol. Apologies to those who liked it, I'm sure it was great! This is just a completely different deviation. Anyway, happy reading! I'm on holiday in Hawaii right now, so I might be a bit distracted but I'll try to keep on with it._)

Margot ate breakfast with her father, kissed him goodbye, and watched him stride down the street. Once alone in the breakfast room, she calmly made her way up the stairs to her bedroom. Of course she hadn't been able to get anywhere the night before. A general cannot lead his troops into battle without a strategy – No infiltration can possibly work without meticulous planning.

She dressed in her best churchgoing gown, a modest dress of French navy with a coordinating headdress that winged out and wrapped around to cover her mouth and nose as a veil. This, her favorite form of disguise, kept her face a secret but conveyed to observers that she was a religious woman.

The sun was bright and there was not a cloud in the sky that day. As Margot serenely walked with the crowd of churchgoers toward the cathedral, little children, escaped from their studies, wove in and out, occasionally bumping into adults and being scolded. Margot felt like a cat, poised to respond to any form of attack; her every muscle was tense.

When they reached the square it made her smile to see so many Parisians taking full advantage of the warm weather, walking as slowly as they could to wherever they were to work. In the corner was the puppet show. Discreetly, Margot cast an eye over to see which show it was. The gypsy, hidden behind his mischievous purple mask, was galloping a puppet horse across the little stage and the children were applauding. Margot smiled to herself and continued up the steps of the cathedral, her head down. The man that she had seen the night before was nowhere to be seen, but there were still four or five guards lining the steps.

The inside of Notre Dame was, and is, a majestic treasure. The rich gold, deep mahogany, kingly stone, and fiery mauve swirled around in a way that almost attacked the senses with beauty. There were candles everywhere inside the vast, echoing chamber and stone buttresses flew up to the heavens. It was fairly crowded and softly mumbled prayers spun together creating a soft, earnest rumble. Margot, under the scrutiny of a guard who had followed the group inside, knelt at a pew and pretended to pray. She was not a blasphemous soul, and she felt a sharp twinge of guilt for the pretense, but she had to keep her eyes alert on her intent.

Prudently, she peeked around the room. She could see the stairway that she knew led up to the bell tower. After an appropriate amount of time, she quietly rose to her feet and began making her way to the corridor in a processional manner. On her way, she overheard two clergymen gossiping.

"…is he?"

"I'm afraid not much better."

"Where is he? The parsonage?"

"No, Father," the man's tone became even more hushed and reluctant. "He is in the bell tower."

"The bell tower? He's near death, what in God's name could he be doing up there in that drafty chamber?"

"It's the bell ringer, Father! He is under the care of the bell ringer!"

Margot must have been listening too obviously, because suddenly the men cast reproachful glances in her direction and scattered.

When she came to the stairwell, she made to go swiftly up it before anyone could notice, but when she turned around to make sure no one was looking, she walked straight into a solid and imposing body.

"Where do you think you're going?" The guard was large and gruff-voiced. Margot only let a flash of surprise flicker across her eyes before regaining composure quickly.

"To see the archdeacon, _monsieur_." She batted her eyes innocently. "He told me he was in the bell tower, recovering. I understand he isn't well."

"_He_ told you?" The guard scrutinized her. "What do you need to see him about?"

"Why, _monsieur_, there has never been any legal implication in seeking out religious advice before!"

"That was before the riot, _mademoiselle_. We are here to protect Notre Dame, and anyone suspicious –" he gave her an emphasized look. Good heavens, he was thick-headed. " – Will be reported to the Captain of the Guard."

"I promise you, monsieur, I have no other motive than to give the archdeacon comfort. You see, he saw my mother into heaven, and at the very least I owe him gratitude, do you not think so?"

The guard thought for a long minute. "Alright, then." He stepped out of the way. "Go up… but I'll be keeping my eye on you!"

Inwardly rolling her eyes, Margot picked up her skirt and daintily began up the spiral staircase. Once she was sure she was two or three rungs up from the guard, she broke into a very un-ladylike jog. The staircase seemed to go on forever. Twice she had to stop in a window ledge and sit to catch her breath. It was a full twenty minutes before she finally reached the bell tower.

The room was drafty and riddled with rafters, pillars, and a few stray doves flying about. She didn't walk straight through the bells, but cautiously made her way around them, suddenly quite afraid. She knew very well that the bell ringer, while deformed, was nothing more than a man – a good man, she understood, who had saved her brother's life. Still, the prospect of seeing him made her feel nervous. She knew it was wrong, but there it was.

As she rounded the bells, she heard a voice – a soft, pleasing voice, reciting verses from the bible. Finally, she saw where the voice was coming from. Beyond the bells was a further room, uncovered by a door or a wall, but established by a meager cot and a candle, as well as a water jug, a rickety chair, and some piles of clothes or blankets – she couldn't tell which. In the bed was the Archdeacon, his head bandaged, looking very pale. A faint smile was curled on his face as he took in the verses with affection. In the chair was the bell ringer.

Margot didn't know what she expected, but she gasped a tiny gasp in shock. He was, indeed, misshapen. He was crouched over and afflicted with a drooping eye and a troubling bulge on one side of his forehead. His thick forearms extended to meaty hands that cradled the worn bible with care. He looked friendly.

Unsure what to do, she stood in silence and let him finish his verses. Then, in the moment that it took him to turn the page, she cleared her throat.

The bell ringer's chair fell to the ground as he spun round in surprise. The three of them all looked at each other for a moment, unsure of how to react. Margot soon recovered from her momentary shock, and said, "Please, I'm sorry to interrupt… I –"

"Is that little Margot Marchelier?" The Archdeacon's voice was frail. He looked up at her hopefully.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I've known you very long, dear." His smile gave her the courage to move closer. She removed her veil and headdress and set them aside as she knelt down next to him and took one of his hands. "Good lord, what happened to you?"

"Judge Frollo." Margot turned in surprise. It was the bell ringer who had spoken. His face was clouded with a shadow of remorse and disgust as the name he had said echoed in the tower like a funeral bell.

"He did this?" He nodded.

"How is your father?" asked the Archdeacon. Margot redirected her attention.

"He's… alright." The Archdeacon looked quizzical. "He's as shaken up by everything as the rest of the city, I suppose."

"And the business with your brother." Margot was taken aback by the holy man's candor, but he mollified her with a knowing smile of support.

"Yes, I suppose that's upset him, too. You… you know about Phoebus?"

"Quasimodo here has told me the whole story." Quasimodo smiled, gently. Margot looked at him.

"You know where he is?"

"Well, yes, I… don't you? You're his sister, aren't you?" Quasimodo was clearly embarrassed. Margot felt indignant.

"No, as a matter of fact, he hasn't come home since last week and I haven't had so much as a note." She took a deep breath and swallowed her anger. "Please. If you know where he is, please tell me. I'm worried about him, and I just – I need to find him."

Quasimodo hesitated. "If you don't already know, I'm… not sure that I can tell you." Margot looked despondently at him. He quickly tried to reword his statement. "It's not that you shouldn't know, I mean, you are his family, after all, it's just… The last time I went where he is now, the entire guard followed us. It could be dangerous."

"Archdeacon, there must be something you can do!" Margot felt hot with anger. The Archdeacon looked at her, sadly.

"I'm afraid, my child, that Quasimodo knows what he's talking about."

Acutely feeling the spoiled brat that she was behaving like, Margot stood up in frustration and walked out to the open platform that looked out over the city.

"Stop!" Quasimodo leapt out of his seat and grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the ledge.

"Oh, for goodness sake, I wasn't going to jump off!"

"That's not what I'm worried about!" He looked pained. "If you had gone any closer, the guard would have seen you."

"So? The guard let me up here."

"Listen to me," the bell ringer was exasperated. "This is bigger than you think. To you it may seem that when Judge Frollo fell, all of the problems went away, but you don't understand! He wasn't the only one who felt the way he did. He had a whole following, most of whom were in the guard, who considered it their mission to purge this city of – of difference! I don't know what they are doing now, but I know for sure that last week was not the end. We are all in danger."

For the first time, Margot understood the seriousness of the world she lived in.

"I'm sorry, Quasimodo." She bent down on one knee so that they were mostly level. "I'm so sorry, you're right. I don't understand much of what has been happening in the city. I'm trying to learn. My friend Mimi said that you saved my brother's life. Thank you."

"You're brother's a good man."

"Please… I promise that I'll be careful, but I need to see him."

Quasimodo thought for a moment, then finally conceded.

"He's in the Court of Miracles."

Margot laughed. "That's a real place?"

"Yes, and if the guard found it –"

"I know… do you know how to get there?"

He sighed and looked at the Archdeacon. His chest was rising and falling in peaceful sleep. "They've moved since last week, but… I can give you a map."


	6. Chapter 6  A Gentleman Caller

CHAPTER SIX

Margot hurtled around the corner, not even bothering to fix her headdress as it flew open to reveal her face. Frantically, she opened her door and threw herself inside. It was 12:30… her father had been home for lunch for half an hour. _It'll be alright_, she thought to herself, as she caught her breath. _Father cannot punish me for going to church!_ She repeated this in her head a few times, although she could not quite believe it. She removed her headdress and tried to smooth her hair down before entering the drawing room. Her father was there, seated on the settee, glaring at her.

"Oh, Father, I'm so sorry. I went to Notre Dame to pray! The Archdeacon, he is near death, and – "

"My dear, this is Guard Montpere and the Captain of the Guard." Marchelier had risen to his feet and placed his hands on his daughter's shoulders to physically turn her to the other side of the room. She had been so anxious to quell his anger that she hadn't even noticed the two other men in the room. "They are here to find out where your brother is."

A cold terror gripped her, and she felt acutely aware of the map tucked into the bosom of her dress.

"Good day,monsieurs." She curtsied. Neither of the men bowed or smiled.

Her father spoke. "I have told them I have no idea, but they seemed to think that, since you had disobeyed me and snuck out of the house, you would know where he is." Margot felt frozen. Surely her own father, despite how little he knew, would not give her away to the guards.

"I know nothing, monsieurs. I disobeyed my father, I confess, but it was only for the purest of reasons."

The Captain's eyes seemed to bore into her. This was a man of power. She was afraid of him. Even worse was when he seemed to finish reading her mind and his eyes drifted downward in a quick but clear survey of her figure. She felt tarnished.

"You mean to say that you would swear in God's name that you do not know the whereabouts of your brother?" Guard Montpere sounded as though he had lowered his voice for this authoritative occasion. Margot began to answer, but she was interrupted.

"You've done a wonderful job with your daughter, _monsieur_." The Captain's voice was low, like a rumbling growl, and his dark eyes did not stray from holding Margot's gaze. "She has grown into a… modest flower."

Margot did the best she could not to snort. She wasn't sure what that statement was supposed to be, but it didn't sound to her like a compliment. Nor did she like this beast taking noticed of her flowers whatsoever. She kept her mouth shut.

"I thank you, Captain," answered Marchelier. "She is a treasure to me."

"Take care that you do not lose this treasure. It would be a crime against the city." With that, the Captain silently motioned to the guard that they were to leave. Too slowly for Margot's taste, they made their way out the door. The atmosphere became cold.

"How dare you make a fool of me like that?" Marchelier's voice was hushed and furious. "Do you know how mortifying it is for a man, when accosted by the _guard_, no less, to not have any idea where his daughter is?"

"Father, I'm sorry, I was –"

"Going to church, yes." He thought to himself for a moment with a low urgency. Thinking the better of what he was about to say, he turned to face his daughter and took her hands. "The city, Margot, is…" he searched for a word. "Fragile," he decided upon. "Last week was only the beginning. In the alleyways, in the bakeries, in the churches, for heaven's sake, there are whispers lacing the city like gunpowder. One flame and we all go up in smoke, do you understand?"

Margot, wide eyed, nodded.

"Good. Promise me you will not leave this house alone again."

She hesitated. Struggling for poise, he tried again, keeping his voice level.

"Promise me, daughter."

Again, she nodded.


	7. Chapter 7: Promises, Shmomises

CHAPTER 7

Twice, now, she had been warned of the danger Paris was in. She felt like a child. Granted, she had behaved in a less-than-mature manner in many ways. She winced as she remembered her getting so easily angered by poor Quasimodo's honest attempts at doing the right thing. Her petulance would have to be kept under wraps if she was going to make any kind of a difference.

She was lying in bed once more, freshly bathed, and feeling useless. Her mind wandered around the square in front of Notre Dame, relishing the colors and sounds she had felt on that wonderful day of disguise. It danced around the rich smells of the freshly baked bread, meandered across a table of linens freshly dyed in earthy magenta or peacock blue, and landed on the puppet show. How clever it had been. She had seen the puppeteer before, of course. Before her mother's death, a year and a half earlier, leaving her house and taking part in the city had been an easy and enjoyed activity. After the tragedy, however, her father became much more restrictive, and with Phoebus gone and the family's stock in the guard no longer a source of comfort, he barely let her out of his protection.

She tried to keep her promise. She really did. She lay there with full intention to go to sleep until it was one o'clock in the morning. Her mind and her eyes kept wandering back to where the map was concealed within the Bible on her bedside table. Gingerly, she reached over and pulled it out. Moonlight flooded through her window, so she crept out of bed and opened it to perch on the sill. In theory, she could go to the court of miracles right now. She knew where it was… but no. She had sworn to be a good daughter. Strict as he was, she loved her father and knew that he was struggling. All the same… the night was unseasonably balmy and there didn't seem to be many guards about…

She caved.

Dressed once more in Mimi's smuggled garments, Margot flew through the night to where she knew to go. She navigated through the tombstones. She found the mausoleum that housed some prominent man of business who had perished a hundred years before. She located the trick stone that opened a hole just wide enough for her to drop into, landing in a foot of sewage. Naturally, through all this, it had taken all of her muscles to keep her from bolting away. Regardless of how adventurous one is, sneaking through a graveyard at one in the morning and breaking into a crypt is enough to send anyone running. She got through it, though, and now wandered down the narrow sewer tunnel, feeling her way. It was foul, but she felt liberated. Somewhere, far down the tunnel, a light flickered. She followed it.

There was no sound but the squelching and sloshing of the sewer water as she slowly strode after the light. Finally, she came upon it. She arrived at a fork in the tunnel, and tiny candles lit the right path. Beyond this was what seemed to be a large chamber, the culmination of four sewer passages. It was lit by several torches but she couldn't see any other indication of where to go next. Furrowing her brow, she pulled out her map and strained to see it clearly through the dark.

Suddenly, chaos broke out. Where from, she did not know, but five or six figures clad in black had dropped down around her, embossed skeletons glaring blue in the torchlight. Hands were upon her, gripping her arms hard enough to bruise, and she was being carried. The men were masked, but they were loud.

"Where do you thing YOU'RE going, boy?"

"That ain't a boy, it's a lady!"

"YOU'RE a lady, Pepe."

"Shut up!"

"You think you're clever, don't you, darling, sneaking in here."

"I wasn't –" Margot tried to protest, but she was promptly gagged and blindfolded.

_Well, I asked for excitement…_ Margot thought to herself as she was dragged through the murky water. The men continued to bicker, occasionally stopping to tell her that she was "in for it." She fought back tears of fear and indignation. She thought that gypsies were meant to be friendly. She certainly hadn't ever done anything to make them angry. These men, if they were, indeed, gypsies, were attacking her for no reason, and now she was _in for it_.

"Everyone's asleep, we can't just go in and kill him, it would wake everyone up!"

"Yeah, good point, let's do it now."

"Shut up, all of you! We're waiting for Clopin."

Margot's blindfold was ripped off.

"Would you like to die now or in a couple of minutes?" A gruff voice asked, matter-of-factly. Margot frantically shook her head, shouting through her gag.

"That means now," said a smaller one. To Margot's horror, he unsheathed a large lathe with a metallic swish and held it high, ready to fall.

"STOP!" A robust tenor voice echoed through the tunnels and everything froze. All eyes flew to the source of the arrest – a tall, important looking man, clad in deep, royal purple stood over them, his brown eyes flashing in alarm.

"Monsieur Clopin, I _told_ them not to –"

"Oh please, Louis, you were as much a part of it as any –"

"It was a break-in, sir. One of them! I was only doing what we decided –"

Clopin held up a displeased hand. One by one, the men removed their hoods and revealed their faces, their hair sticking up to every angle from the coverage.

"This is a friend of the gypsies. If she has come to the Court of Miracles, it is for our benefit."

"She?" Repeated the gruff-voiced one, a rotund man with black hair and an unshaven chin. The little one, presumably Pepe, stuck his tongue out at him.

Margot had had enough. She yanked her arms out of their now limp grip and removed her gag. "Yes, she!"

Clopin raised his eyebrow. "All of you will resume your post, and see me tomorrow." The men nodded and made their way down the tunnel. Margot stood awkwardly and looked at the gypsy.

"I wasn't trying to infiltrate your fort or anything, I promise!"

The gypsy smiled a friendly smile.

"I know, I know! They are not exactly the brightest. Please," he indicated with an outstretched arm for her to begin walking. She obliged. After a moment of silence, she became overwhelmed with confusion.

"I don't understand, how did you know I was a friend?" He smiled a knowing smile.

"I have seen you, _mademoiselle_."

This made her a little nervous. "Seen me?"

"_Oui_, in the square the other day. A little boy tried to rob you. Instead of beating him, like many Parisians would, you gave him some coins. That, to me, is a friend of the gypsies." His voice was reedy and animated, but very friendly.

"You saw me? But how could you –" Margot's eyes grew wide. "Oh! The puppeteer!"

The gypsy let out a laugh. "Clopin Truffeleau, King of the Gypsies." He extended his hand. She was too confounded to shake it."

"But, I was in disguise that day, I was completely covered, how could you possibly recognize me?"

"Your eyes are the same." He said this flippantly, as though it was completely normal to save a person from being gutted with a sword because you recognize them by their eyes. Before Margot could fathom a protest, they had rounded a corner and reached the end of a tunnel. Clopin pulled back a dark tapestry to reveal the Court of Miracles.


	8. Chapter 8: The Court of Miracles

CHAPTER EIGHT

It certainly was miraculous. Almost cathedral-like, columns flew up to meet the ceiling at least four floors above Margot's head. Though the room was grey stone, there was color everywhere in the tapestries that draped the walls. Lining the room were what looked like market tents. Fuchsia, cobalt, and pollen colored, they were four-poster tents that peaked in the middle in a stylish, almost Middle Eastern way. The room was vast, but nothing rang in echo except the faintest drone of deep breathing – everyone was asleep. Margot was too in awe to speak, which was just as well, because Clopin caught her eye and held his finger up to his lips. He gestured for her to follow him, which she did. He led her across the room and up some rickety stairs that were pressed against the wall. Beyond these was a doorway covered by a curtain, and beyond this was his bedchamber, or so Margot assumed.

In it was a mattress, made of straw and covered in the most beautiful quilt she had ever seen. It was every color a jewel had ever been and embroidered with the finest gold thread. Other than that, there were candles in a line, sat inside an indentation in the wall that lit the room well enough to see.

"Now, what can I do for you?" He turned to her, clearly very amused by the whole thing.

"I… have no idea." Margot was still in shock. "Wait – yes! My brother!"

He looked at her unsurely. "Forgive my perception, but I do not think you have a brother who is a gypsy."

"My brother is Phoebus." This landed with Clopin, whose expression turned surprised and fond.

"He is with us. Wait one moment." He left, abruptly. He was abrupt in general, Margot decided. Unsure of what to do, she pulled aside the curtain, stealthily, and watched Clopin make his way down the stairs.

He was older than her, probably in his mid-thirties. At the puppet show, his hair had been wild, covered by a jester's hat, but now it looked more grown-up. It was almost curly and was pulled back in a rogue-ish ponytail. He was, however, clearly a very positive person. Margot didn't quite know what to make of the King of the Gypsies.

In a few minutes, he returned through the curtain, followed by a tall, handsome man whose blonde hair and blue eyes made Margot grin.

"Phoebus!" She ran to her brother and he, bewildered but excited to see his sister, wrapped his arms around her in a tight bear hug.

"Gogo, what are you doing here!"

"Don't call me that!" She was laughing but she could feel tears welling up. He looked at her, inquisitively. "I know it's silly, but… I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

His face softened, and he put his hands on her shoulders.

"Hey, come on. You knew we'd see each other." He looked her up and down. "What are you wearing?"

"Don't ask," Margot laughed through her tears, which were now receding. Suddenly, she became aware that there was a fourth person in the room. Standing next to Clopin and watching in tender sympathy was a stunning gypsy woman whose thick, raven hair tumbled down past her shoulders. She, like Clopin, had brown eyes, though hers had an edge to them. "Hello," Margot said. The woman looked to Phoebus for a cue.

"Margot, this is Esmeralda… my wife." He placed his hand on the small of his wife's back and looked at her, fondly.

"Your… wife! So the rumors are true!" Margot was breathless. "Hi, hello… I'm Margot."

"Nice to meet you," said the woman. They struggled, unsure of an appropriate gesture of meeting, but sighed with relief when Margot decided to hug her new sister.

Over the next hour, the four of them found themselves gathered in a circle on Clopin's mattress, talking into the night. It was surprisingly comfortable, and the quilt was soft. Throughout the conversation, Margot had sudden moments of gleeful shock at where she was and what was happening.

Eagerly she filled her brother in on the visit by the Captain of the Guard.

"What I can't understand, though, is why they're after you! I mean, you haven't done anything wrong, have you?"

"Well, it's more complicated than that," answered Phoebus with affectionate patience. "They see me as a sort of symbol. Right after the riot I found out that there was pretty much a price on my head. That's why we went underground."

"But why, though, have you broken a law?"

"Trust me, these people aren't interested in legality." He exchanged a knowing look with Esmerelda and Clopin, who scoffed and sighed respectively. "From what I understand, the man who has taken my place has it in for us." Margot couldn't help but notice that by "us" he meant the gypsies. Her responsive feeling was mixed – excited for him but also somewhat distanced.

"They think that because he helped us when he was a public official, that he's some kind of renegade and a danger to the community," said Esmeralda.

"The official charge is treason and, because I am an offense to the church, heresy."

Margot blinked in comprehension. Throughout this explanation, Clopin had been silent, but he had clearly been in thought. Once or twice she had caught him surveying her, not in an ugly, leering way like the Captain had, but more in an honestly curious study. In the pause that followed Phoebus's concession, Esmeralda noticed it, too.

"Clopin, I think this is the longest you have gone without making some kind of exclamation of humor."

He smiled wryly and stroked his goatee.

"Esmeralda, you have each been doing so well, I didn't want to upstage you with my sparkling wit." His eyes were shining with playful mischief, but his face looked drawn and tired. Margot realized how truly late it was.

"I must go back." She stood up and hopped nimbly off of the bed. She pulled out her ribbon and tied her hair, which had been hanging loose for the past hour, back into its ponytail. Her brother stood up, too, followed by the others.

"Hey, sis, listen," he looked at her straightly. "You don't have to go back, I mean… you could stay here with us."

Margot shook her head with a sad smile. "Someone's got to look after father."

"Yeah," Phoebus nodded, incapable of concealing his exasperation and sarcasm.

"Phoebus, he isn't a bad person. He's… having a hard time with you gone."

Phoebus chose to ignore this and instead smiled and wrapped his sister in a hug.

"Come back soon, ok? If you can?" Margot nodded, and hugged Esmeralda, too. She liked her – there was warmth punctuated by a fiery stubbornness and cheeky mischief that she knew suited her brother perfectly.

That only left Clopin.

"Let me see you out, if you must go." His tone was congenial and hospitable.

Once inside the tunnel in the depleting light, Margot felt awkward walking alongside this man. She had been too bewildered before to notice, but there was something both thrilling and completely improper about walking alone in the dark with a single man. Well, to be fair, she didn't know if he was single, but it still felt altogether shocking.

She snuck a look at his profile in the dim, flickering candlelight. He wasn't what the ladies in her finishing school would call handsome. Then again, neither was she. He had dark coloring and an almost pointed goatee that, combined with the small gold hoop in his ear, gave him an almost pirate-like appearance. She noticed (with inner chagrin) that he had a strong, rather large nose. She had always had a penchant for big noses on men. Embarrassed, she snapped her gaze back to the walk in front of her.

Clopin, too, felt a little awkward. As usual, he tried to medicate this by attacking the girl with verbalization. As he led her down another passageway that avoided the unfortunate murk of sewage, he bombarded her with a festive story about a recent incident when a pig broke loose in the Court of Miracles and wreaked havoc, completely destroying a weaving loom and forcing the weaver to shimmy up a chain that hung from the ceiling in terror.

"I suppose she was afraid of pigs…" He laughed, weakly. He was normally much cleverer, but then it was nearly four in the morning. And, somehow, he was drawing a blank with her.

Margot did find the story funny, but the whole walk back felt strangely awkward. There was nothing she hated more than awkward situations, so she was frustrated by the time they reached the way back into the mausoleum. It required climbing up some iron rungs, much like a ladder. Before she climbed them, she turned to face Clopin, the waning moonlight drizzling down through the hole.

"Well, thank you, _monsieur_. For everything. I'm sorry I've kept you up all night." He smiled.

"Oh, please. We are gypsies, we are nocturnal by nature."

Unsure of how to part, she extended a hand. He took it and, instead of shaking it, bowed over it.

"I don't know if a King of the Gypsies should be bowing to a lowly French maiden." She smiled, though. He straightened up and held on to her hand.

"You are so right, _mademoiselle_. I won't make the mistake of stooping so low again," he joked. "Allow me."

Still holding her hand for leverage, he helped her up the stairs. She called goodbye down the shaft before replacing the stone and scurrying home.


	9. Chapter 9: Love and a Little Monster

CHAPTER NINE

_Now_ she was a revolutionary, she thought to herself smugly. After only three hours of sleep, she sat at the breakfast table with her father, hardly able to conceal her grin. She had done it. She had done _exactly_ what she wasn't supposed to do, and it felt delicious.

"You seem very happy this morning," her father noted. His grey, curly hair seemed wilder this morning, and his face looked gaunter.

"Should I not be?"

"Of course you should, it's just…" He leaned back in her chair and pondered deeply into his bowl of porridge. "I know that these past few weeks – these past couple of _years_… have been hard for you. And I haven't made them any easier."

Taken aback by her father's suddenly contrite tone, Margot looked up in concern. He continued.

"I want you to know that I'm sorry for that."

"Oh, father," she stood up and came to his side. "It's alright."

"Well…" He gathered himself into a grim smile and took his daughter's hand. "I just want you to be happy."

Following this outburst of apology, her father informed her that he was going to the country for the weekend to stay with a nobleman in a chateau. In his own words, it was to "heal some sort of breach" between their family and anyone and everyone in power. He looked weary and like it was the last place he wanted to go, but soon after breakfast his luggage was loaded into a cart and he was driven away.

The weekend stretched forward in endless possibility. He had bestowed on her the power to come and go as she pleased. She took the opportunity to really learn all she could about the conflict between the church and the gypsies.

"I've been to see the Archdeacon again, he looks better." As Margot delivered this news, both Esmeralda and Phoebus exhaled in relief. They were walking around the perimeter of the Court of Miracles – only God knew where they found the space, it was practically a small village in its own right! Now that it was nine o'clock in the evening as opposed to three in the morning, it was alive with energy. Much like above ground on a weekday morning, there was bread being baked and sold, rather loudly. Children were chasing each other, peddlers were setting to work on their merchandise, and large women gathered around a great washbasin and stirred the linens. Somewhere, men were strumming guitars and singing a jaunty, cheeky jig. It was miraculous, to say the least.

"And Quasimodo?" Asked Esmeralda.

"An excellent caretaker," answered Margot.

"And a good man," added Phoebus. He and his wife exchanged a smile. They had filled Margot in on everything that had happened in Notre Dame before and during the riot.

"Well, the Archdeacon told me all about the new judge – you know, the one who took over after that dreadful Claude Frollo." This peaked Phoebus's interest.

"And?"

"He's nothing like Frollo, thank heavens. But apparently, he is as sour and stodgy." She snickered a little. "The bright side is, he isn't roaming the streets of Paris setting fire to peoples homes and drowning babies. The dark side is, he's completely wrapped around the Captain of the Guard's little finger. The Archdeacon sounded furious when he told me! Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"Well, lucky it wasn't in your case, Phoebus," said Esmeralda, wryly.

"So, what does this mean for Paris?" Asked Phoebus.

"As far as I can tell, if I can get the Judge to understand the truth about all of this – that gypsies _aren't _in fact the scum of the Earth who want to poison little Parisian children's minds into throwing their families into the Seine –"

"Not so loud, you're giving away our clever plan!" Out of nowhere, Clopin was walking alongside them. The other three laughed in surprise. His hair was wild again and topped with a pirate-like purple hat with a yellow feather sticking out proudly. He looked comical, yet still full of authority.

"As I was saying, your highness –" Margot shot him a playful look of censure. "if I can get the Judge to see the light, then he'll get rid of the Captain and actually start doing some _judging_."

The others looked thoughtful. Phoebus looked doubtful.

"And how could you do that?"

"I don't know yet… but all I know is that something has to be done. The Archdeacon says that the city won't stand for another round up like last time, but if one gypsy sets a foot out of line, they will be arrested on the spot. Surely you've noticed that they've been watching your puppet show like hawks, Monsieur Clopin!"

Clopin shrugged in a very French way. "I am not breaking any laws. But yes, I have seen their beady little hawk eyes. I thought they were just receiving intense catharsis from the magnificent beauty and truth that explodes from my show!"

Suddenly, a little boy came tearing toward Clopin at high speed.

"_Oncle! Oncle! C'est moi_"

"Ahhh, _ce'st toi!_" Clopin, face alight, bent down and scooped the boy up in his arms. "_Est-ce que tu es un choufleur?_"

"_Non!_" insisted the boy, but he was grinning from ear to ear and giggling. Margot suddenly recognized him as the little boy who had tried to rob her in the square.

"You!" She smiled, incredulously. Esmeralda and Phoebus exchanged glances again and continued to walk on.

"Mademoiselle Margot, this is my nephew, Adolpho the Little Monster."

"This is your nephew? You didn't say that he was your nephew!" Margot held out a hand for the boy to shake. He did. Then he took Clopin's hat off of his head and jammed it onto his own. "And how old are you, Adopho the Little Monster?" Adolpho proudly held out five fingers. "Five? Wow, they start young here, don't they?" She raised a wry eyebrow at Clopin, who bit his lip to contain a laugh. Then he looked at his nephew.

"Why are you not asleep, Little Monster?"

"Not sleepy," answered the boy.

"Oh, not sleepy, eh? Well, I heard that Madame Hegart has some medicine for little boys who are 'not sleepy'!"

"No!" The little boy's eyes widened in delighted terror. "I'll go to bed!"

Clopin smiled warmly and exchanged a "good night" with his nephew, then put him down. The boy returned the hat while looking up at his uncle with total adoration, then sprinted off. Margot smiled at Clopin, and they turned to keep walking. Now that they were alone, that familiar awkwardness began to settle into a silence, but Margot was determined to combat it.

"He's a very nice boy. Your sister must be proud!"

Clopin smiled, but sadness came into his eyes. "My brother, actually." He hesitated, looking sideways at Margot. "He and my sister in law are… no longer with us."

Margot felt terrible. "Oh… I'm so sorry."

"Please, do not be troubled, _mademoiselle_," his tone had become easy and conversational again. "He lives in the Court of Miracles, so it is impossible to be alone. At least four families are raising him, myself included!" He said this last piece, proudly. Margot bit her lip and wondered why exactly this felt so strange to ask.

"And do you have any children of your own?" His mouth curled into a smile.

"No. None of my own. Being a King is very busy, you know! No time for a wife!" He said this jokingly and with a grand gesture. With graceful ease, he turned around and began walking backward. At first Margot thought he was playing some sort of joke, but when she looked behind her, he was signaling "two" to the passing baker, a tall, young, lanky man dressed in a draped white shirt that a lot of the gypsies seemed to be sporting. The baker tossed two croissants to Clopin with a smile, and Clopin turned around in time to catch them without looking.

Barely concealing a pleased-with-himself look, he handed one of them over to Margot, who took it. She was impressed, but she covered it with a raised eyebrow.

"Smooth."

"Croissants are serious business."

Esmeralda offered her the chance to stay the night, but she politely declined. She didn't want the servants to worry, least of all Mimi. She returned home and went to sleep, feeling truly happy and filled with pure contentment for the first time in years.


	10. Chapter 10: An Unwelcome Visitor

CHAPTER TEN

The crowd went wild. Despite the tension between the gypsies and the rest of Paris, it all disappeared during the puppet show.

Clopin gave an extravagant bow, whipping off his jester's hat and bending down so low that his nose nearly scraped the ground. When he came back up, he caught the eye of one of the four guards scrutinizing his every move and stuffed his hat back onto his head, cheekily. To keep the mystery alive, he yanked the canopy over the stage closed and vanished from view. His cart was cramped on the inside, but comfortable to him. He slipped a puppet version of _Le Roi d'Angleterre_ off of his hand and tossed it into his sack of puppets. It had been the King of France, Louis XI, but with times so manic, the perception of a foolish king, even in jest, was dangerous business.

He sat down in his throne-like cushioned chair and propped his feet up on the puppet stage, pouring himself a goblet of wine. The next show would start in twenty minutes. He always felt restless in the interim – a born performer, he was happiest when all eyes were on him and he was behaving like an idiot. The wondrous thing about playing a fool, he thought to himself, is that when a real fool comes along, the people take the side of the player.

He hadn't seen Margot at the puppet show. He had grown accustomed to her somewhat regular attendance. Since first arriving at the Court of Miracles, she had shown up twice. She never spoke to him, or even acknowledged their acquaintance, but he had seen flashes of her blue eyes piercing out of the crowd, and swore he had heard her laughter – loud and uproarious, the kind of laugh that can give one whiplash – permeating through the roars during a particularly ridiculous bit.

He had to admit, though it embarrassed him to do so, that he found her very attractive. His mother had always told him that he would grow up to marry a gypsy girl with a good figure for child bearing and a regal temperance. Ever since he was a boy, he heard this refrain. His brother had also been victim to her conditions, but he had managed to do it – and fall in love, all at the same time.

Now, Clopin was past the age of traditional gypsy marriage. He was no longer a spritely youth. Granted, he wasn't dead yet, but thirty-two in gypsy years was practically a wizened ancient. There was still plenty of time, he thought to himself, and rubbed his forehead hard with the tips of his fingers. He had plenty of time to find himself a Gypsy Queen and bear an heir… and if he didn't then someone competent would be appointed.

He took another swig of wine. He usually didn't worry about things like this. Yet, the image of Margot, looking at him like he was an idiot with those large, sea-blue eyes floated in his mind. It wasn't the way things were supposed to go, but he couldn't help but like her.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

"Next show starts at one-thirty!" Clopin shouted.

"By order of the Captain of the Guard, open up!"

Gripped with panic, Clopin frantically scrabbled out of his chair and did a quick check. He couldn't see anything illegal in the cart, but buried the former King of France puppet underneath a few cow puppets before opening the door. Two guards, their helmets reflecting the piercing sun, stood stoically and hard faced.

"Gentlemen!" Clopin swooped his arms out in greeting and smiled, widely. "I always knew you were comedy enthusiasts. As I said, there's fifteen more minutes until my next show, but I'd be happy to give you a private viewing."

Wordlessly, the guards stepped aside to reveal the approaching Captain of the Guard. Clopin's mirth was replaced with violent dislike.

The Captain's black eyes surveyed Clopin with equal lack of value. He was a burly, menacing man, but Clopin felt no fear – only loathing.

"How sweet of you to offer," sneered the Captain, his low voice growling snidely. "I'm afraid we haven't the time today."

"Then, what can I do for you, oh Captain my Captain?" The Captain stared at him.

"Step out of the cart."

Clopin did so. The two guards immediately grabbed him roughly by the arms. "Hey, woah, easy!" He was shocked. "I haven't done anything." The guards held him up to the Captain, who put his hands behind his back and looked down his nose at him.

"Understand, monsieur Clopin, that this is a friendly visit."

"Yeah, I always try to bruise my friends' arms as much as possible when they come by for tea."

The Captain laughed, mirthlessly. "You have an overpowering sense of humor, _monsieur_. Careful, though, it could get you into trouble some day."

Clopin dropped his joking demeanor and said, seriously, "Look, just tell me what you want, yes?"

"I hear tell that you are King of the Gypsies, _monsieur_. Is it true?"

Clopin stared straight up at him. "No," he said, warningly. "You're mistaken."

"Am I? Such a shame, for I seek important council with the King of the Gypsies." He leaned in close. "Well tell the king, when you see him, that I have a deal that could make him a rich man."

When Clopin didn't bite, the Captain moved in closer.

"Tell me where the Court of Miracles is."

"I don't know what you mean." Clopin's lightness was back and he looked skyward, innocently.

"I'll ask you again. Tell me where the Court is, and you will be given everything you could desire. Refuse to tell me now, and you will fall with your kingdom. "

Clopin's mahogany eyes flashed with hatred as he glared at the Captain. He said nothing. The Captain's brow furrowed with anger and he spit at Clopin's shoes.

"Guards, let the gypsy filth go back to his little show."

With equal roughness, the guards released his arms from their grip. It didn't hurt – he may be lanky, but he was strong. As he watched the backs of the retreating guards, it took every muscle in his body to keep from lunging at them. The only thing that lightened his heart was the brief flit of shining golden hair that he caught out of the corner of his eye. Margot had made it to the show, after all.


	11. Chapter 11: The Ball, Part ONE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Monsieur Marchelier returned all too soon for Margot. She'd spent the four days he was away doing all she could to gather information about the Judge. He lived outside of the city and was about two hundred and three years old, according to Cosette, the dairymaid. Not only did she not come up with much about him, but she also had no idea how she would turn him around to be on their side.

Even more bad news came in the form of her father standing in her doorway. Margot turned away from the mirror and slowed the brushing of her hair.

"Father?"

"I've had a... most interesting weekend." The spring was back in his step. He approached her and put his hands on her shoulders. He looked under his eyebrows at her in the reflection.

"Is… everything alright?" Margot was suspicious.

"More than." He smiled at her. "Margot, you have grown into a beautiful young woman."

She edged away from him "What do you want?" He held his hands up in defeat and took a step back.

"Alright, I can't get anything past you. The truth is, the Vicomte de Burgundy was very hospitable, and has said that he will do everything in his power to support our family's reputation."

"He said that?"

"Well… not in so many words, but trust me. That's what he meant."

"Huh."

"Ahh, scoff not, oh doubtful daughter." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, gleefully.

"Why are you so happy?" Margot laughed, incredulously.

"Because, he's already showing his kindness."

"How?"

"A ball!" He looked at Margot, waiting for some exclamation of excitement. When it didn't come, he elaborated. "He and his wife and daughters are coming to Paris tonight, and tomorrow night they are holding a grand ball. He says that it is time to bury all of this bleakness and celebrate. The, uh, Captain of the Guard will be in attendance… I know he liked you."

Margot bit back a gag and rolled her eyes.

"Alright daughter, scoff if you must, but remember. We are only safe as long as our reputation withstands. It is your job to help to secure it. Marriage is your only weapon… do not brush aside an offer when it can mean the protection of your own life." His tone was serious and cautioning. Margot held his gaze for a minute before returning to brushing her hair.

Whether she liked it or not, she was going to the ball. She really didn't want to – when her mind was so wrapped up in the Court of Miracles, the last thing she wanted to do was make nice with a bunch of snobby nobility and pretend that they were actually important.

In the short couple of weeks that she had been introduced to the underground world of gypsies and politics, she had changed, drastically. She no longer felt empty or weary, and she was infinitely more confident. Gone was the meek, petulant creature. It felt to her like she had aged ten years in two weeks. It felt good.

Nevertheless, here she was in a carriage dressed up like a porcelain doll on her way to a chateau. Her dress was white with little bits of silver threaded discreetly into the gauzy fabric. It was long sleeved, and while the square neckline and laced up bodice didn't reveal everything, it wasn't trying very hard to be coy. Mimi the genius had done her hair up in an elegant, wavy up-do with a braid wrapping over her crown and gentle tendrils coming down the side of her face and the back of her neck. As the carriage pulled into the cul-de-sac in front of the chateau, she wrapped her silver shawl tighter around her, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She hadn't been in company like this since before her mother's death. It was a busy entrance; torches lit the archway that led inside, and lords and ladies were pouring in. Margot's gown was much simpler than theirs, but it had been her mothers. If she was forced to take part in a ball, she wanted to have the support of her mother there.

It was a masquerade ball, so all of the guests wore wild, colorful faces, violently protruding beaks, and sky-high feathers. Margot took her own mask – a white half mask with glittering gold waves streaking out like sunrays – from the seat next to her and secured the ribbons behind her head.

"You look beautiful." Her father looked her over and smiled, sadly. "You're the very image of your mother!" Margot gave his arm a squeeze and inwardly braced herself. The footman opened her door – it was now or never.

The chateau's ballroom was a dark, paneled room with tall windows that overlooked the courtyard. The floor was shining hard wood and all of the accents were gold and rich mahogany. Though it was high ceilinged, there was something dark and lair-like about it. Wrapping around half of the room in an L-shape was a set of stairs with a swooping banister that led up to an indoor balcony. The musicians were already playing – nothing compared to the jovial jigs of the gypsy musicians, Margot noted. This was a slow, rhythmic series of swells played on strings. Occasionally, the melody strayed into a chaotic polyphonic venture.

There must have been nearly a hundred guests there, but the main players were clearly marked.

The Vicomte was an older, dignified looking man. He was very pleasant, but Margot had always found him a little bit obnoxious. The sort of man who often had a red face and was telling personal stories at a little too high a decibel.

His wife, a much younger woman, was equally enthusiastic. Round, kind-faced, and buxom, she was a fierce talker and an excellent joke teller. The two of them were standing ten feet apart, surrounded by men and women respectively, hanging on their every word. The two of them had matching gold and silver masks with bells and tassles hanging from the horns.

Margot also saw, to her dismay, the Captain of the Guard. He was at the far end of the room, up a couple of steps, talking to two other guards. Of course, he was wearing all black. Margot bristled and quickly ducked behind her father to eliminate any chance of him seeing her, even at a distance.

Her father was currently speaking to some lord or another about the new explorations going on across Europe. He didn't introduce Margot, so she slipped away and began to weave through the crowd. Suddenly, there was a brassy call.

"_Mar-_got!" Only one girl said her name just like that… every single time… Margot spun around and saw the source.

"Noelle!" She slapped a tight smile on her face and moved through the crowd to Noelle DeLeauvre. She was absolutely tiny, at least compared to Margot. Noelle was about 5'2, a full six inches shorter than Margot, but she had a certain quality that had the power to make people feel small. She had delicate, diamond-blonde hair that was styled in an Italian, Botticelli-esque way, and emerald-green, intelligent eyes peeping out from a very small pink mask. As Margot looked down at her, she felt an all-too-familiar feeling creeping up. In finishing school, where they had met, Noelle had always been popular and attentive, but something about her presence could cripple the most secure person into a dithering, awkward teenager. Here, she was surrounded by three other girls Margot recognized from school.

"What are you doing here? I thought your father had you locked up!"

"I'm an escaped convict," Margot said with a completely straight face. Noelle's turned aghast.

"_Real-_ly?" Margot only had time to raise her eyebrows before another girl, a stunning brunette who was called Lisette joined them.

"Noelle, it's true!" The girls giggled and began craning their necks.

"Have I missed something?" Asked Margot.

"Oh, my dear _Mar_-got," Noelle grabbed Margot's wrist, excitedly. "A _prince_ is here."

"What?"

"He's a prince! Of… Italy, or Spain, or… somewhere!"

"Italy, Noelle!" Lisette smiled, coquettishly. "And he's eligible, I hear!"

One of the other girls, a tall, skinny, dark haired girl, hissed, "Not so loud, Lisette! The men will hear you!"

Margot rolled her eyes – she didn't like this. All she wanted to do was go to the Court of Miracles and be with the people that really made her feel like herself.

"May I?" Suddenly, there was a gruff, deep voice behind her. It caught her so off guard that she jumped and wheeled around, only to come face to face with the Captain of the Guard. The sight was so unpleasant that an actual little noise of disgust escaped her lips before she slapped a hand over them.

"Captain, how… nice…" she stammered, at a loss, her eyes frantically searching for some sort of lifeline behind his burly shoulder. His hair was slicked back into a ponytail and stubble coated his chin. He had chosen not to wear a mask. Despite his large and menacing impression, he could have been considered decent looking in another universe.

Now, he was too close for comfort. She could feel his hot breath on her. He did not elaborate, but he had a sort of closed-lipped smile and a hand extended toward her.

"Oh!" She realized he wanted her to dance with him. No. Absolutely not. Never in a million years, you greasy, ugly, brutish lout – "Thank you, Captain, but I cannot leave my friends." Wow. It took a lot of face muscles to smile through that one. He shrugged in a seemingly friendly but underneath threatening way.

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind."

"_Mar_-got!" Noelle whispered, giving her a push from behind. She stopped before his outstretched hand touched her.

"Alright!" She conceded through gritted teeth, and hesitantly took his hand. It was rough and calloused, like an old shoe.

Before she knew it she was being "escorted" to the area where couples were dancing.


	12. Chapter 12: The Ball, Part TWO

AUTHOR'S NOTE: _Ok, boys and girls – well… ok, GIRLS… I just felt like I had to put in a disclaimer, because up until now I have tried to stick to historical accuracy for the most part. I've actually done a little research here and there to try to keep the story fairly grounded… I realize that in the last chapter I bent that rule by throwing a little ball for the characters – something that probably would NOT have happened because of the religious hold. However, this IS a fanfiction after all, so… get ready for some yummy, gooey, marshmallow-y sweet fanfiction SCHMALTZ! It's been a long time coming, so just sit back and enjoy the cheesiness that I had a lot of fun writing __._

_By the way, at least eight more chapters to go, it ain't over till it's over!_

CHAPTER TWELVE

Margot had been through some mortifying times in her life, but nothing compared to the torture that was dancing with the Captain of the Guard. It wasn't that he was a terrible dancer, but her cheeks went up in flames as she looked around at the crowd and wondered who was judging her for standing up with such an unlikable person. Because he was a head taller, he looked down his nose at her.

The dance was a slow, plodding one. Margot and the Captain had their palms pressed together and walked around each other in a circle. There were over a dozen other couples. As they circled each other, the Captain looked serious. Margot avoided his eye and tried to focus on other people in the room. Noelle and her cronies were suddenly very animated and flirtatious. They had positioned themselves in the most alluring stances that they could get away with and had their eyes glued to one part of the dance floor. Following their gaze, Margot caught a glimpse through the turning couples of the Vicomtesse laughing audibly with a partner who was not her husband.

Intrigued by the potential scandal, Margot peeked back to see the Vicomte looking thoroughly unaffected and happy. She was jarred out of her spying by the dance shifting. The couples moved into lines of six and walked up three steps and back three steps. Then a circle was made out of each line and the dancers interweaved each other. It was a simple dance, with those three steps repeated until the lute player tired. Every two times, dancers would turn with another person for one round, then return to their original partners.

When they were interweaving, Margot craned her neck – two circles back, the Vicomtesse was dancing with her mystery partner. She caught a flash of him – he was dressed in a stately purple and gold brocade jacket and wore a purple, half-faced mask with a large, Venetian beak. Purple – the color only worn by real royalty in this world. She realized that this must be the prince that the girls had been gushing over.

The dance went on. And on. The Captain had a tight grip on her hand as they moved with the line. She detested it. As time moved on, she noticed herself and the Vicomtesse getting closer and closer. Eventually, toward the end of the dance, she and the Captain were in the same line as the Vicomtesse and the Italian prince. They made a wide circle and began interweaving. Like all the others, it went by in a blur, until suddenly there was a shockwave throughout her body and her heart leapt in instant disbelief. Her hand came in contact with that of the Italian prince. It went by so fast; it couldn't have been… could it?

In the brief second and a half that they passed each other, his brown eyes had locked into hers with secretive mirth from behind his purple mask. But it was impossible! She felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her as she turned around the other dancers who were gaily oblivious to her existence. When she returned to the Captain, she was looking around so frantically she almost lost count. The music had sped up slightly, and the couples were turning and shifting so fast that the room seemed to be spinning.

"Are you alright?" the Captain hissed through the corner of his mouth – he was embarrassed. _Hah_, she thought to herself, absentmindedly. She was too preoccupied to reply however, so she satisfied his disapproval with a curt nod and a return to a respectable posture. When they were done circling one another, they weaved again. The Captain began to turn around the Lady DuMonte and Margot was craning her neck behind her to try to catch a flash of purple. Her hand landed against another open palm, and before she could turn to see whose it was, she heard a voice.

"Please-a to meet-a you, mam'selle!" Wheeling around, she came face to face with the Prince himself.

"Clopin!" She hissed, wide-eyed and suddenly skittish. "What do you think you're doing here?"

"Well," he shrugged in a very Parisian way but spoke with a loud, outlandish Italian accent, "I am enjoying de dance, _non, ma cherie_?" His French was colored with put-upon poor pronunciation. Under his breath, his voice rumbled with impish intimacy. "I'll explain later," he murmured with a grin. "Meet me on the veranda in ten minutes and _all_ your questions will be answered."

Margot couldn't help but laugh to herself. "I'm dancing with the _Captain of the Guard_, you idiot!"

"I know," he looked around for the aforementioned partner. "And I always a-thought of a-you as a lady of _taste_, _Principessa_!"

"Stop it! If he sees who you are, he'll have his whole cavalry arrest you and beat you into a bloody-" They were cut off as the music dictated that they return to their partners.

After a few more rounds, the dance was over. She applauded politely and glanced around for Clopin, but he had vanished. Before the Captain could ask her for another long, torturous dance, she indicated that she had a sudden headache and asked for a glass of wine. The Captain, a man of order if nothing else, obliged and finally left her alone, at which point she immediately bolted away and snuck outside.

A few others were enjoying the mild spring air – it was brisk but not too cold to stand in. Some gentlemen had set up a drunken round of croquet. It always struck Margot as somewhat ridiculous that France prided itself on being a pious and devoted nation of Christ, and yet when the _nobility_ gathered, moral behavior seemed to fly out the window. She didn't disapprove of fun – she'd certainly had a glass or two of wine in the Court of Miracles, but the flagrant hypocrisy of it all was insufferable.

Hugging her shawl tighter around her and praying that the evening was old enough for her to be inconspicuous, she stuck to the wall and scanned the parterre for a sign of him, to no avail. She had to admit it to herself – she felt excited. When their eyes had met, she felt a flutter of something somewhere at the bottom of her ribcage… she didn't know what it meant, and was much too embarrassed to dwell on the subject. Instead, she suppressed a wide grin and turned to look at the set of stone stairs leading up to a sort of lookout balcony to the left.

He was there. When she had gone up, thankfully unnoticed by the outdoor revelers, she spotted him, feathered hat cocked, mask in hand, leaning against the balustrade and gazing out across the estate to the seemingly faraway lights of Paris.

For a moment she just looked at him, silhouetted against the night sky. The half-moon shone fairly bright and the stars winked in the clear. A certain fondness that she had begun to feel around him crept up into her chest and swelled a little. Not knowing what else to say, she cleared her throat. Upon hearing the noise, he spun around and, once he was sure it was her, broke out into a grin. He whipped the hat off of his head and brandished it in a deep, theatrical bow. Very characteristic. She smiled back and cocked her head, disbelievingly.

"What on earth are you doing here? Do you have any idea how much danger you've put yourself in?"

"Rather a lot, I believe," he said in his crisp, emotive tenor and examined his nails. "Any moment now I'm going to be stuck on a spit and served at the buffet!"

"Then what did you come for?" She said it teasingly, but he looked up at her without a joke.

He didn't really have a reason that could be explained in a simple answer. As he looked at her, standing luminous in her ball gown looking at him with pitying joy, he smiled to himself.

The truth is, he'd heard about the ball and Esmeralda of all people had teasingly mentioned that Phoebus's baby sister might come home a _madame_ instead of a _mademoiselle_. She knew what his response would be – sudden and violent jealousy tinted by the excitement that accompanies a hair-brained scheme. Esmeralda, being one of his oldest and closest friends, could see plainly his feelings for the girl – probably more than he did himself. But when he thought of her coming to some fancy ball and meeting some dastardly duke that would take advantage of her kind heart and pleasant nature and connive her into marrying him. Upon seeing her with the Captain of the Guard of all people, he realized that he needn't have come for protection – her obvious dislike showed that she was more than capable of handling herself. Well, he always knew that.

"I'm here to see you," he said now, and he knew it was true.

Margot swallowed. "Me?" She said, her voice suddenly husky.

Clopin moved a tiny bit closer. In the dark, she could make out his face and the jaunty sharpness of his features, softened by his now tender expression.

"Well, I'm not exactly here to see the Vicomtesse de Burgundy!" He joked.

"I don't know, _monsieur le Prince_, you looked pretty cozy with Her Ladyship in there!"

"What can I say, it's the Italian in me!"

The two of them laughed.

"You make me laugh," Margot said. And that was all it took. They stood in silence for a few moments after that, but Margot's admission had filled them both up with such simple warmth and liberty, that they were flushed with pleasure.

Clopin jerked toward her in what Margot first thought was a clumsy and blunt attempt to embrace her, but his hands clamped onto her shoulders and she felt herself being whisked into the darkness. Before she could exclaim in protest, he hushed her, suddenly serious. She had been so caught up in the moment that she hadn't heard the footsteps behind her. From their hiding place in a crevice that ducked into the stone wall, Margot heard two of the Guards.

"She's not up here," said one.

"I'll go tell the Captain," said the other.

"No need," came a gruff voice – the Captain, himself.

Jammed up against the stone wall, Margot heard his footsteps moving closer. She was pressed against Clopin, who had a protective hand against the wall above her and was listening intently. They were so close that if she moved her forehead forward an inch, it would graze his coarse, stubbly chin. Her heart stirred, either from fear that the Captain would discover them or from the heady realization that they were so close together that their breath was mingling.

They both gasped and tried to move further into shadow when the Captain came into sight. He stood at the balustrade and looked out on the estate like a hawk scanning for its prey.

"I'm sure she's around here somewhere, sir," one of the guards said.

"Keep looking," he growled. "She couldn't have gotten far."

When they had gone, Margot scoffed in angry disbelief.

"He sicked his _dogs_ on me? I can't believe it."

She gave an offended little laugh and turned back to Clopin – their eyes met for a brief moment.

"Follow me," Clopin said with a sly grin and grabbed her hand. She followed him around the corner to a set of iron rungs leading up to the roof. He gestured toward it like it was a red carpet. Margot laughed.

"Have you been here before?"

"I'm a gypsy, Margot," he grinned impishly, "Sneaking around is my forte."

Everything felt different tonight. Perhaps it was the jasmine that perfumed the garden, or the clear sky, or the gaiety inside… or the wine. Either way, as Margot climbed the ladder, she smiled to herself.

They sat together for a long time looking at the stars and listening to the music.

"So, how did you get in, anyway?"

"Sheer cunning."

"No, really!"

"Yes, really," Clopin leaned forward and propped his arm on his knee. "I showed up dressed up and when someone asked who I was I told them I was the Prince of Portofino."

"No!"

"Yes."

"And they believed you?"

"What can I say," he grinned. "I am a master of disguise." As he finished speaking, his tone softened and their eyes locked for a second time. He made to hold it. After a moment, nervous, uncomfortable Margot looked away.

"My father will be looking for me, to say nothing of the Captain! I'd better go back –" He stopped her by touching her cheek with his hand and guiding her face to look back at him. Then he slowly leaned over and dropped a kiss on her forehead, light as a butterfly's wings.

As he moved back slowly, he looked down at her to see her reaction. She was shocked, even though she had been expecting it, and her eyebrows were raised and the corners of her mouth were gently curled up in happy surprise.

And then they were kissing. Happy, celebratory, feverish gypsy kissing under the starlit spring sky.


	13. Chapter 13: A Buzz and a Bad Beginning

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Oh, Mimi, it was the most amazing evening of my life!" Margot was flopped onto her bed in her nightgown with her lush golden hair fanned out around her like a halo. She grinned up at the ceiling. Mimi bit her lip to stifle a laugh as she folded some laundry and stacked it on the vanity. She had to admit, this was something of a turn-up for the books, indeed. Mimi had known Margot since she was six years old and Mimi herself was fourteen – She started out as a chambermaid, then a part-time governess, and now (though old Marchelier would never admit it) she was really part of the family. She had her own family, of course – Thomas was the most wonderful husband a woman could ever wish for, and her little Rumi was the most precious thing in the world to her. Yet Margot was also family.

In all the time that they had known each other, Margot had never seemed to lose her head over a gentleman. Once, when she was seven, her head was turned by a boisterous ten year old lad who worked at the boulangerie, but as a woman she had always been very sensible. Yet here she was, spouting poetic verses about the night smelling like jasmine and the stars winking down upon the two lovers.

Mimi had been relatively kept in the loop about the scandalous goings-on the past couple of weeks, and had delighted at every description. Margot had told of the rich tapestries reaching up around the Court of Miracles, Phoebus's fiery and dark-haired bride, the misshapen but wise and kind hunchback… Clopin, King of the Gypsies, had been mentioned once or twice, but never had Margot spoken so ravishingly of him.

Margot wasn't completely off the deep end… certainly, Mimi had seen much worse cases of lovesick madness before. But Margot's eyes, so drawn and shaded in the past few months, now looked young, happy, and full of a glowing hunger for life.

"Why had you never mentioned him before?" She asked her friend now.

Margot turned her head on the bed to look at Mimi, and her visage looked suddenly caught. She sat up and looked at her hands.

"I was embarrassed. You know how I am about men…" Mimi nodded. Margot continued. "I just didn't know if how I was feeling was… alright."

"What do you mean?"

"Well I know it isn't the kindest thought I've ever had, but… he's older than me! Much older. Thirty-two! Someday, he'll be forty!"

"So will you," Mimi commented, but under her breath as she turned to pick up her laundry and put it into the closet. Margot continued, not hearing her.

"And… well I know I shouldn't have thought this, but it did occur to me that… well he's not… oh I mustn't."

"Go on!" Mimi plunked down on the bed next to her. Margot stood up in feeling.

"Well shouldn't I be in some heated romantic tryst with a young, attractive nobleman's son with a pretty face and a talent for making every other girl jealous? That's what all the ladies from finishing school are doing…"

"But you don't _like_ young, attractive nobleman's sons. And, from the way you tell it, this Monsieur Clopin is rather handsome!"

A warm, strong smile crept onto Margot's face. "Well, I think he is."

"Then what could possibly be wrong with that?" Margot had no answer. Mimi fondly brushed some hair away from Margot's face. "I know, love. If only your mother was here." Margot bit her lip – this was exactly what she had been thinking. "But you're a woman now. You have to think these things through for yourself. So… what do you think?"

"I think that when I'm with him, I feel like there's a laugh sitting in my chest!" Margot flopped back down onto her back and put her hand on her forehead in embarrassment and feeling. "I feel – safe. Happy. I just… I really like him, Mimi."

"So what's the problem, you silly girl?" Mimi whacked her friend playfully with a recently laundered dishrag, but Margot's face suddenly clouded and she put her hands on her stomach.

"Well, it's not as though father would ever let me marry a gypsy."

Mimi knew it well. She gave her friend a tight-lipped smile and squeezed her hand in comfort, but there was nothing she could say to make that fact go away. She could delay it for a while, though.

"Tell me more about tonight."

Margot smiled.

She couldn't stop smiling. On Tuesday, when her father commented that there seemed to be something different about her, she said with a contented shrug that fastly-approaching spring was having it's yearly effect.

Even her breakfast oatmeal tasted better. Marchelier, who had been watching all of this transgress, studied his daughter. After a moment of watching her smile into her porridge, he stood up and moved to the window.

"Margot, you are almost a grown woman now."

Margot snapped her head up to look at her father's silhouetted profile. This could not be leading to anything good.

"Yes, father?"

"Naturally, you are going to be… _involving_ yourself with… gentlemen…"

Oh God. He knew. Margot gripped her spoon and didn't take her eyes off her father. This was it; she was going to be disowned and kicked out of her home. Marchelier turned back to face her and leant on the back of his chair.

"I've never been very good at these kinds of talks… it's times like this when I wish your mother was sitting at the table with us." He took a breath. "I can see that something is different about you. You are in love – " Margot gave a jolt. " – and I must say, I am delighted."

"You're… you are?"

"Of course! I know which man it is who makes you glow so. Ever since the ball, you've been lit up like a firefly."

"Well I… don't… I—huh?" Now she was really nervous.

"And I couldn't be more happy for you!"

"Father, please!" She pushed her chair away from the table in frustration. "I really don't know what you're talking about."

"The Captain came and asked me himself yesterday!"

It felt as though cacophonous strings were spiraling around her. She had to grip the table in front of her to stop herself from fainting face-down into her oatmeal.

"_What_?"

"Of course I gave him my blessing." He approached his daughter and stroked her hair fondly. "I couldn't be happier for you! He's a fine man. Such position, such a promising reputation in the town – he can keep you safe."

To stop herself from exploding, she pushed her father's hand away and bolted out of the room.


	14. Chapter 14: Good, Bad, and Ugly

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_This isn't happening – This ISN'T HAPPENING._

Margot paced back and forth – she hadn't run out of the house, knowing that she may run into guards or, worst of all, the vile Captain himself. Instead she had retreated to the last bit of land left in a sweepingly rising sea of panic – her bedroom. Throwing open her shutters, she gasped the crisp morning air and tried to get her equilibrium back.

Margot was sheltered, pampered, and treated like a child, but she was no fool. She knew that when her father made his mind up it didn't change. She knew, too, that he would do anything to regain the family's security of a good reputation. With Phoebus considered a villain to the city, she was her father's only bargaining chip.

Two stories below, Margot saw her father leave for a meeting with the other merchants in the city. She physically restrained herself from spitting at him and pulled herself in from the window. Suddenly she heard voices coming up the stairwell. They were muffled but it was clear that one was Mimi and one was the exact voice she had wanted to hear.

Trembling, she left her room and crept to the stairs.

"I'm sorry, sir, she can't see you at the moment."

"I'll wait. She'll see me."

Margot froze – it was the same growling, sinister voice that she had been dreading to hear, the voice that conjured up the memory of a leathery, large hand holding her own and dark, foreboding eyes looking down on her like she was less than human.

_What does he WANT_, Margot thought to herself as she gripped the railing. She couldn't understand it. She'd only met him a couple of times and hadn't given him the slightest bit of encouragement. Besides, it was not as though _she_ was a great Parisian beauty – Noelle DeLeauvre, perhaps, or plenty of other girls from the finishing school had Margot over a barrel in terms of looks.

Mimi appeared up the stairs and shot a stern look Margot's way.

"Get _down_ there, I don't think he's going to leave!" She hissed in passing and nipped up stairs to her quarters, but not before adding "I'll try and find the kitchen boy and send him down, I don't trust him alone with only young women."

Margot braced herself and descended the stairs. There he was, hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders shrouded in a deep black uniform and his head uncovered to reveal his greasy black hair pulled into a tail at the back of his head. His boots were thick and clunky, which gave him an even more intimidating air. Margot stayed on the last couple of stairs, not daring to come any closer. When he turned around at the sound their eyes met and he didn't smile. Margot fixed her eyes on his and swallowed.

"Look, I don't know what my father's told you, but you are not welcome in this house. I'm sorry if I've given you some idea that I was interested in receiving your attentions but I'm not and though my father is a gentleman, he is not here and I cannot pretend to want anything more than you leaving here and never coming back."

There was a pause. The Captain only looked fazed for a microsecond before regaining his mien of gruff pride. He took a step toward her. Margot held her ground. When he spoke next, his tone was surprisingly congenial.

"Do not suppose that I come in a spirit of hostility, _mademoiselle_. There is nothing devious in my motive for calling on you."

Margot didn't quite know what to say. "Then… then why did you come, _Monsieur le Capitan_?" He came even closer; close enough to put his large hand on the stair rail, just two feet away from Margot.

"Merely to see you."

"I believe I have made it quite clear, _monsieur_, that I do not wish to be seen."

"Why do I offend you so?"

Margot, perhaps foolishly, was feeling brave. "You are a brute." She moved closer to him, her blue eyes fixed on his black. She braced herself against his rough breath and spoke right into his face. "You are a bigoted, proud, cruel-hearted pig."

Suddenly, with a wrench of pain, his huge hand was gripping her wrists together.

"Mark my words, wench," He growled into her face. "You _will_ be my wife. And you _will_ respect me. If you dare not, there will be consequences. You are a lady of stature, _mademoiselle_. It is not only your livelihood at stake."

Margot was terrified, but tried as hard as she could to keep her breathing under control. Thank God, for at that moment, Toby the kitchen boy (a very tall, very strong seventeen-year-old with sandy hair and strong arms) came down the stairs with Mimi.

"Leave this house at once." Margot kept her voice level but it was colored with her indignation. After a moment she ripped her hands out of his and bolted upstairs. Behind her, she heard the door slam. She only got as far as the top step before she sat down and let the tears come. Mimi had rushed up after her and immediately sat down and took her in her arms.

"He's gone, the louse," said Toby, protectively. "Want me to go after him and teach him what for, Mar?"

"No," Margot laughed through her tears. "Don't worry, Toby, he doesn't frighten me."

But he did. And his threat made sense. Immediately, Margot was filled with guilty regret as consequences swirled in front of her eyes. Her father could lose his position, they could end up on the streets. The Captain could find Phoebus and punish him for her rudeness. What would become of the people who depended on her?

Margot didn't tell her father what had happened when he came home that night. Instead she stayed in her room, wept occasionally, and thought a lot. When it came down to it a woman in Paris had nothing much to barter with except for her actual self. Surely she had done the right thing – that lout couldn't go on thinking he could treat people like property, especially not Margot. She had gone her entire life almost believing that she was nothing more than an asset. Finishing school, society, balls, dinners – occasionally they were joyful, but mainly they just affirmed what the world told her to believe – that she was there to be looked at, considered, and bought.

It was only in the last month that she had really begun to value who she was. She felt pride when she thought about how daringly she had escaped her captivity, like a princess in a fairy tale breaking free from the dragon-guarded tower. Only was that all it was? A rich little girl playing at life?

Then she thought of Clopin. When he looked at her with those large brown eyes, he really saw her. He spoke to her not like a delicate flower, not like a child, and not like a piece of property, but rather like a human being. And she found when she talked to him that she actually had things to say.

She remembered their first conversation and how stilted and stiff it had been – oh how things had changed since then. She found herself thinking about things and yearning to tell him about them. She wanted to know his every thought on everything that passed them by. She was a little overcome by the power of these feelings, and a little ashamed of herself for thinking so highly of a person – the last thing she wanted was to become one of those silly girls who become ninnies around gentlemen. But Clopin was different; and he made her feel different, too.

She had made the right decision. If she was going to marry anyone, it was going to be Clopin.

As she thought this to herself, she didn't quite believe it. There was no getting past the terrible truth that he was a gypsy and she was a Parisian lady. But surely that didn't mean she would have to settle for the Captain!

Back and forth she went all night, sleeping in harrowed shifts and waking to dried tears on her pillow. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but she knew she had to go to the Court of Miracles, and she needed to talk to Phoebus.

* * *

It turned out that going to the Court would be much more difficult than she imagined. When she slipped out that morning the rain was pouring down and guards were everywhere. They seemed to have doubled in numbers and were cracking down on gypsy peddlers and, to be frank, anyone who looked vaguely tan. The last thing she wanted to do was lead them to the Gypsy Kingdom.

Before, to be honest, Margot had just been being extra-cautious, shrouding herself to keep her father from discovering she had been out. Now the danger was real. Her father was more comfortable with her going out, but if the Captain found her, or if the guard found some reason to bring her to him, she knew there would be trouble. To be extra careful she borrowed a servant's dress from Mimi and slipped in with the crowd walking to mass – if she couldn't go to the Court of Miracles, the next safest place was Notre Dame.

She noted the ominous absence of Clopin's puppet cart.

She sat through the mass and prayed for guidance. She spoke silently to God, going over and over what she had done, pleading for a sign, an indication of how things would turn out alright.

In the corner of the crowded cathedral sat the Archdeacon, looking pale and drawn but at least down from the bell tower. When the mass was over, she moved to him and greeted him warmly. They exchanged friendly conversation and she felt comfort from speaking with him. As the crowd dispersed, he indicated to the stairway to the bell tower but did not go with her.

"Now that I'm down I can't seem to make it back up again, you understand." He laughed, mirthlessly. "Please, thank Quasimodo again a thousand times for his kindness to me." She promised she would and made her way up to the bell tower.

Quasimodo's face brightened when he saw her. They greeted quickly, as acquaintances that are not quite friends but hold high regard for each other tend to do. Then, without saying another word, he nodded toward the balcony. She followed his gaze and her heart leapt. Silhouetted against the thundering rain was a figure she could recognize anywhere. His long limbs and deceptively strong back and shoulders were cocked at a jaunty, dauntless angle as he leant against a pillar, one leg crossed over the other, arms crossed, and a foppish feathered hat balanced on his head gave it away instantly.

"Clopin?" She turned back to Quasimodo. "What's he doing here?"

"Ask him," he said with a sad smile. "I think he's going a little stir crazy in here. I'm surprised he's even standing still, he's been pacing for the last half hour!"

Margot went to him and leant against a nearby pillar, also looking out at the rain. He didn't hear her approach.

"Some weather we're having, isn't it?" He jumped and smacked his hand to his hat before it fell off in his surprise. When he saw her, a slow, warm grin spread across his face. He crossed his arms again and leant back against the pillar again with a self-assured grin and surveyed her, clearly taking intellectual pleasure trying to read her intentionally challenging expression. Then he looked scathingly back down at the guards dotting the square.

"Yes, there are little black clouds all over the place."

Unsure of what to do, Margot looked out, too. She didn't look at him as he came closer, but she could feel his warm body approaching and it felt like a good glow against the chilly air. With friendly ease, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders tightly but gently and pulled her toward him. She let her head rest on his shoulder and the two of them stared out at the rain together enjoying the closeness.

Quasimodo smiled and turned away. He was happy for them. Clopin had become a very good friend to him, given they shared the same real estate. And though he did not know Margot very well, Phoebus was one of the best men he knew and he could tell by her exuberant wit and open eyes that she, too, was truly good. Still, a small part of him was bitter. He wished he wasn't, but it was hard to watch true happiness being found sometimes. It was even harder to see Clopin going out of his mind keeping out of the rain and, more importantly, the guards' way. Quasimodo had to spend every day hidden away from the world. It didn't matter that many Parisians hailed him as a hero; he still caused shrieks and jeers in the streets whenever he ventured out.

Ah well, he thought. At least he knew he had real friends.

"They are everywhere today," Clopin murmured. "Two of my close friends have already been chased down the street. I'm their leader, I ought to be doing something."

"What can you do?" Margot pulled away and looked up at him. "Honestly, what can you do now? The best thing you can do is keep everyone well hidden until this all dies down."

Clopin looked at her pityingly.

"What was that look for?"

"Sorry," He dropped the expression. "It's just, it isn't going to die down, _cherie_."

"Well don't look at me like that again." She was suddenly indignant. "Maybe I don't know the scope of things, but I'm doing the best I can."

"I'm sorry," Clopin said, contrite but taken aback at her outburst. Margot's face softened.

"Well… just keep the Court safe. You'll think of something."

He smiled wryly and brushed a strand of damp hair out of her face.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

She smiled in response, then looked down, gearing up.

"I also think that… well, I don't think I ought to come to the Court anymore for a while."

"What? Why would you think that?"

"I just – until the guards are less hawk-eyed… I'd hate for me to lead those stumbling cretins right to the nest."

Clopin laughed a little. "Why would they follow you?"

"Just… because. Because I'm the daughter of a prominent gentleman, and… and I don't know, I just think they might."

He looked down at her. "I will miss you if you don't come anymore."

She wanted to melt into his arms and promise to be there forever but she held back and said instead, "How are you going to get back?"

He took a sudden air of cocky swagger and placed his hat back on his head. "They've not caught me yet, _mademoiselle_! That's pure gypsy blood for you."

Margot laughed. "You silly goat."

"You know," he turned suddenly searching. "Sometimes when I look at you I see a flash of gypsy blood."

"Me? I'm the palest, blondest Frenchwoman in the city."  
"It's not that, it's something in the way you speak… something in the way you move your body." He gazed down at her fearlessly. Margot was self-conscious and gave a nervous smile.

"I should go, Clopin." She turned to go but he caught her hands and tenderly kissed her forehead. Once more she was tempted to sink her head forward and just embrace him, but her sensibilities were so overthrown by everything that had happened that to surrender control would… well she didn't know what it would do.


	15. Chapter 15: On the Run

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

She should have known something was wrong when Mimi didn't come to her room that night to deliver laundry and offer homespun wise advice to her lovesick and confused heart.

"Mimi?" She called into the landing but no one answered. Her father was not home, nor, at this time of night, were the majority of the servants, but Mimi always was. Suddenly she heard a muffled sound coming from Mimi's quarters up the stairs. Sensing danger, Margot gasped and grabbed the nearest thing to her – an umbrella out of the stand next to the wall – and, wide-eyed, crept her way up the stairs. The door to the attic was closed, but Margot could hear movement on the other side, so she braced herself, gripped the umbrella like a spear, and threw the door open with a shout.

Mimi's head snapped up in panic. She wasn't surrounded by thieves or brutish guards, as Margot had feared, but instead was surrounded by probably the least likely people – her family. In her lap sat her little boy, Davet, and knelt next to them was her husband, Thomas, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a congenial, handsome face, ginger beard, and currently worried eyes.

"Mimi?" That was all Margot would say. She suddenly snapped out of her surprise and quickly closed the door behind her. "Does Father know that you're all here?" It was an insipid thing to say but at the moment she couldn't make a single connection.

"Margot," Mimi had swept Davet off of her lap and into her husband's arms and nimbly made her way over to her friend. "It's the Captain. He's sent his men after Thomas."

"W-what?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to bring him."

"But… but Mimi, Father won't stand for it, you aren't safe here!"

Mimi was struggling to keep her tears back.

"Well can you think of anywhere else?"

As a matter of fact, Margot could, but it was a risk. Nevertheless, they shrouded themselves in cloaks, took only what they could conceal, and set off into the night.

The air was becoming refreshingly balmy as the spring grew upon them. It was now mid-April, barely a month since her very first visit to the Court. As she guided the family through the pitch-dark graveyard (the moon was very nearly gone), Margot felt a twinge of fear as she realized she might be playing into the Captain's beast-like hands by leading them there, but it was a risk she had to take.

They finally made it into the Court without being met by any guards. Margot was suspicious, but decided that they had simply devised new security, and only her earned recognition by the gypsies had protected them from some giant force of defense.

When she pulled back the heavy velvet curtain and shepherded the petrified family into the court, she heard the soft songs, scuffles, and stories quiet slightly as dark eyes turned on the visitors.

Mimi whipped her hood off of her head and Thomas looked around in wonder, his sleeping son's head heavy on his shoulder. They both gazed about in amazement.

"Margot?" A voice pierced through the room and Margot swiveled to see Esmerelda running toward her, her white blouse billowing with momentum and her dark hair streaming behind her. "What are you doing here, it's nearly midnight! What is it, what's wrong?" She asked, urgently.

"No, don't worry, I think it'll be alright," Margot replied, still trying to formulate some sort of plan. "Esmerelda, this is my oldest and dearest friend, Mimi." Mimi's head snapped back from staring far up the tapestries to the stone ceiling above, barely illuminated by the few torches left lit, and stared at Esmerelda.

"_Bonjour_," Mimi said, and curtsied timidly, as though she were mildly frightened of the gypsy woman. Esmerelda, who had dealt with far worse, looked at her fondly and smiled.

"Pleased to have you here." She turned back to Margot. "What… are you doing here?"

The low buzz of families settling down for the night had recommenced, and from the next room on the far side of the chamber came muffled sounds from the men having a few drinks after a long day. Swiftly and quietly, Margot gave Esmerelda the run down and introduced her to Thomas. Without missing a beat, she took their cloaks and led the husband, wife, son, and Margot down some stairs and into a corridor that twisted and bent and spiraled off into individual homes.

They walked into one and there was Phoebus, sitting on the bed and poring over one of several books scattered about the room. He looked up in alarm when, instead of just his wife, four adults and a child wandered in.

"Mar!" He leapt up to embrace his sister. "Mimi?" He stood for a moment in confusion before rushing forth to lift his old friend in a tight hug, before shaking Thomas's hand heartily and ruffling little Davet's hair. "What's all this?"

"Phoebus," said Margot, urgently. "The Captain has a warrant out for Thomas's arrest."

"God, why?"

"Because he's a brute and a lout."

"Amen," said Esmerelda. Thomas, who until now hadn't said more than two words, came forward.

"I'm sorry to cause all of you any trouble. The Guard showed up at my smith when I was in the back room. They spoke to my apprentice, told him I was wanted for heresy. We don't want to endanger any of you." Esmerelda snorted.

"Listen, you're doing us a favor. This'll be good for our reputation." She smiled, slyly. Margot immediately thought of Clopin's mischievous attitude the first time they talked.

As though summoned, the man himself appeared in the doorway. Margot noticed that Phoebus stood up straighter and looked at Clopin with an expression of respect.

They filled him on on the situation, and Clopin immediately conceded that they were to stay here as long as necessary. Esmerelda and Phoebus gave up their room, much to the grateful relief of Thomas and Mimi, who were ragged with exhaustion and trying desperately to keep Davet from waking. The rest of the group relocated to Clopin's chamber, which overlooked the sleepy Court with a fatherly eye.

The minute they all entered the room, Margot began to feel nervous. She was certain by now that she felt deeply for Clopin, but the idea of being in a bedroom practically alone with him sent spasms of skittish energy through her.

Clopin felt it, too. He was thankful that the presence of Esmerelda and Margot's brother deterred any awkward moments between Margot and himself, but he still couldn't help but be very aware that it was the middle of the night and the girl of his dreams was sitting on his bed. They had been in the same position once before, but under completely different circumstances. He remembered with a fond smile that first night when the four of them were gathered on his mattress talking long into the night. Then she had been just a fairly pretty girl who had stumbled into his world. Now, though…

He was eleven years older than her, he'd seen more of the world and experienced more of life. Not only that, but he was a gypsy. It wasn't the first time a woman that he loved had been in his room, to put it politely. Yes, he'd been in love before. He suspected Margot never had. And yet, her clever eyes and witty language was so bewitching to him that he felt a new kind of feeling toward her – that of utmost respect and friendship. She was young, yes, but so good in her heart and wise in her mind that, as Clopin thought as much while sneaking a look at her across the bed, he felt a swell in his chest. This was a girl to hang on to, as his father would have said.

Margot, on the other hand, was wrought with anxiety. She could only imagine what her father would say when he found her missing. There was nothing for it, though – it was past midnight and there was no going back now. Esmerelda pointed this out to her when she voiced her concern, and took her to a friend's chamber to change into something to sleep in.

Esmerelda's friend, a young gypsy by the name of Rosita, rolled over to hear her friend request, mumbled a drowsy assent, and went immediately back to sleep. Esmerelda grabbed a nightdress – almost full length with a nipped in waist and ruffled neckline that fell comfortably off the shoulders – and tossed it to Margot, who slipped behind a dressing screen and removed her overflowing gray gown. Her everyday clothes seemed so fussy when she was in the gypsy world.

Esmerelda, who was leaning against the wall waiting for her, bit her lip. "Margot?"

"Yes, Es?"

"I don't mean to pry, but… you and the King of the Gypsies, huh?"

Margot blushed as she pushed the layers of her dress over her head.

Esmerelda laughed, then whispered, "Sorry, I couldn't help but notice."

"Has he said anything?"

"No, no, don't worry. You aren't being gossiped about or anything. I just… I could tell by the way you were looking at eachother."

Margot smiled and slipped the nightgown over her head.

"How long has it been going on?" Esmerelda asked.

"I don't know really… I suppose he told you about the ball?"

"Well only that he went… he had to after I caught him in that hideous outfit!" She laughed as Margot emerged. "So… do you love him?"

Margot was caught. "I—I don't know."

Esmerelda let it drop. She didn't want to push the girl, but she could tell that the answer was really "yes," deep down.


	16. Chapter 16: A Plot is Hatched

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was decided that the two girls would get the bed, and Phoebus lay down on the floor next to Esmerelda. Clopin, glad to be given an excuse, took the other side, next to Margot.

At first it was awkward. But as the breathing settled and the other two fell asleep, Margot turned her head to look at Clopin for the first time since lying down. He felt her looking at him and looked over, too. She was about a foot higher up than he, but still very close. Wordlessly, he reached over and took her hand, and kissed it, smiling slightly. She smiled back. They didn't need to speak – the longing between them was thick in the air. But for now (and to Margot's relief), all they could do was silently fall asleep with their hands tightly held – and that's just what they did.

The next morning, it was down to business. Mimi and Thomas were officially in hiding in the Court, and Margot knew she had to fix things. Davet cried when he first woke up, but some of the gypsy women coddled and cooed over him until he was grinning from the attention.

Over hot coffee and pain au chocolat, Esmerelda, Clopin and Margot planned their next move.

"Margot, didn't you say that you knew of a new judge?"

"I don't know very much – only that he isn't Judge Frollo," Margot answered Esmerelda apologetically.

"Always a good sign," chimed Clopin with a glint.

"The problem is, you don't know who he is or where he stands, right?" Asked Esmerelda.

"No, I don't. And as of last night, I doubt Father will be of any help to me. He'll have thought I've eloped with some unsuitable gentleman and written me out of the will." As soon as she said it, she unconsciously cast a furtive side-glance at Clopin and felt an incredible wave of awkwardness. If he noticed, he didn't show it. "But perhaps I can approach him myself."

"You are the daughter of a prominent banker, yes?" Clopin had assumed his King-Of-The-Gypsies-business-like attitude and was leaned back in his chair so that only the two back legs were supporting him.

"_Oui…_"

"So your name will be known to him."

"I suppose so."

Clopin brought his chair back to the ground and leaned forward. "And you already have some pull with your… shall we say…" He searched for the right word. "_Incandescent_ beauty." He looked at her with one eyebrow cocked and a smug expression. Margot blushed but covered it up with a raised eyebrow right back. Esmerelda snorted.

"Sorry, Mar, I'm not laughing at you, just…" she turned to Clopin. "You're a bit much at times, you know that?"

"And that is why you love me!"

"Ahem… my 'incandescence' aside, what are you getting at?" Margot cut in.

Clopin was businesslike again. "This man is new to power, he will be looking to gain ground, to please the influential people. He needn't know that your father does not wish you to speak to him, all he needs to know is that the beautiful daughter of one of the most influential businessmen in Paris is at his doorstep and wants a word. I guarantee you he will be attentive."

"Good point," agreed Esmerelda. "And he hasn't been a presence in the city, really, so who's to say he even knows what the guard are up to, let alone approves of it?" The two gypsies stared at Margot, expectantly.

"_Fine_," conceded Margot after a long pause. "Alright, I'll do it. I'll go talk to him."

"You see? I knew I liked you." Clopin tilted his chair forward and popped a kiss on her cheek.

After breakfast, Margot sought out her brother, who had been spending some time catching up with Thomas. She filled him in on what was to be done.

"As your older brother, it makes me a little nervous, but you're a tough cookie, Mar… I don't doubt you'll have it under control," was his response.

"I'll go straight there before I get too nervous."

Phoebus opened his mouth to speak, but bit back his words. Margot looked up at him, quizzically. Phoebus looked down, then back at her.

"I think you should speak to father first."  
"_What_? And tip him off, so that he can spoil everything? Phoebus, I thought you of all people –"

"Look, regardless of all of the stuff between Father and me, he loves you more than anything in the world, and to be honest, he's probably worried sick since you disappeared last night."

"Alright," Margot said, slightly annoyed. "You needn't scold me."

"I'm not… I just – I know that he's… of a certain mindset, but just let him know you're alive. For me."

Margot crossed her arms, feeling mildly petulant but maintaining her displeasure. Phoebus raised his eyebrows pleadingly.

"Urgh, alright. But only because you are a really good older brother, in most scenarios."

So, an hour later she stood in front of the door to her house. She looked a complete mess. She couldn't come home in gypsy clothes, for fear of the guard – though gypsies were still all over the Paris streets, plying their trades and putting on shows, they were in constant danger of being reprimanded, removed, or jailed, should they do anything disruptive. Because of this, she was forced to come home in the gray gown she had left the night before in, which was rumpled, torn, and dirt stained from trying to rush her way through a graveyard in the middle of the night. She'd managed to fix her hair, but she was certain she looked a fright. Taking a breath for confidence, she pulled the latch of the door and went inside.

Though she wasn't surprised, it still caught her off guard to find that her father was not at work, but at home. She could hear his muffled voice – it sounded anxious and angry. He shouted something and then, a moment later, a plump maid scurried sheepishly down the stairs. Margot went up them and into the breakfast room, where her father was pacing in front of the window. In the split second when his eyes landed on her and he took in who she was, she was certain that he was going to hit her. Instead, he made a strangled noise that burst with desperation, and immediately rushed toward her. When he came to her, instead of striking her, he stood looking at her as though he couldn't believe his eyes, raised his hands up, and gently but firmly put his hands to her face. He looked at her softly, relief beaming from every corner of his face. Then, slowly, his expression changed from relief to anger and hurt. He gripped her shoulders and slightly shook her.

"WHERE – HAVE – YOU – BEEN?"

"Father, I –"

"Do you have any idea of what has been going through my head in the last twelve hours?"

"Father, I'm sorry!" She was frozen with fear, not because he was gripping her arms, but because his eyes were filled with tears. She hadn't seen him cry since the night her mother died, and before that never.

"Sorry? You're sorry?"

"Father, please, I didn't mean –"

"You are never leaving my sight again, do you hear me?"

With an overwhelming surge of claustrophobic angst, Margot did the unthinkable – she pushed her father off of her. He stood, appalled.

"Father, I am twenty-one years old. I cannot keep living the life of an adolescent captive!" He did not respond, so she went on. "I am so, so sorry that I put you through this grief, Father. I didn't think, I really didn't, about how frightening it must have been for you." She felt herself tearing up, but bit it back. "Mother's dead. There's nothing we can do to change that. But I can't live like an invalid just to maintain an empty vitality."

There was a long pause. Marchelier had collected himself, and was now looking at the floor, jaw clenched.

"Where were you?" He asked quietly. After a moment's hesitation, she answered honestly.

"With Phoebus." His eyes snapped back up at her. She went on. "Father, he loves you. And he misses you."

"Where?"

"I… I can't tell you, Father, I'm sorry."

He clenched his jaw again and turned away from her, striding toward the window.

"Father, he's in hiding. If his whereabouts are known, he could be –"

"Please." She couldn't see his face anymore, but her father's voice sounded strained and weary. "Don't speak of it anymore."

"Yes, father." She waited, but it was clear he couldn't address her further. Miserably, she silently left the room and made her way to her own chamber to get cleaned up to see the judge.


	17. Chapter 17: An Ultimatum

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The carriage ride to the home of the judge was a long one. From what Margot could scrape together, the judge was a rather different man from his predecessor. He lived just outside of the city in a sprawling manor house that kept him from having to walk out onto the street and see the immediate effects of his decisions. Margot had heard in the market that he was the sort of old man who kept fox-hounds and only had two or three people that he liked well enough to speak to. She was intimidated.

As she watched the gorgeous spring scenery sprawl by leisurely, she lay her arms on the windowsill and propped her chin on top of them. It hadn't been an easy morning. After the blowup with her father, she had stayed out of his way, but she could tell that a dynamic in the house had changed. She hadn't snuck out. Instead she had gotten dressed in her finest calling outfit, come down to the drawing room, and stood in the doorway, presenting herself to her father. She had announced she was going with Toby for a ride out to the country – which was true, technically – and that she would be back in a couple of hours. She received no reply from the stony back of the gentleman at the window.

As the carriage went over a bump, she heard young Toby call, "Are you alright, _mademoiselle_?"

"Yes, Toby, I'm perfectly alright," she called back to him, and looked back out, ruminating on other things. She hadn't been very satisfied with the way she had left Clopin. Thanks to the incredibly awkward physical tension between them the night before, the morning had been enjoyable but slightly stilted. When she had woken up, everyone else had already left the room and gone down to the main square of the Court. When she had joined them, she saw Clopin walking through a crowd holding little Adolpho in his arms and carrying on what looked to be an excessively animated intellectual discussion with the Little Monster. The thought had occurred to her that he would make a marvelous father.

This, of course, had opened up a world of frenetic thoughts bouncing through the synapses in her mind. Would _she_ make a good mother? And… would some day she and Clopin be mother and father? Would she want that? Was it possible?

Esmerelda, who could read people like a book (although Margot's large eyes and expressive eyebrows tended to make her inner monologues pretty clear), had shot her a smile and given her a hearty rub on the shoulders.

Now, in the carriage, she pictured Clopin walking again, holding up the little boy in his strong, cinnamon arms, his chin tilted down in joyful discourse, his clever brown eyes soft and kind. Again, she felt a physical yearning to stroke his cheek, to kiss his brow, to furrow her face in the crook of his neck and breathe in that wonderful, musky gypsy scent. She blushed, even alone in the carriage.

These confusions occupied her mind until her attention was taken by the stately house they had pulled up to. The judge's house. Toby helped her out of the carriage and, according to her bidding, stood warily outside. Inside was cold and stately. Margot pulled her fitted dark blue robe closer around her. Though it was Spring, the house was large and drafty and the inner rooms were windowless. She wandered down the high-ceilinged hallway cautiously. Somewhere in the estate footsteps were approaching. Suddenly, further down the hall, there appeared a stout little woman. She froze when she came into view and turned with a perplexed expression toward Margot, who froze in turn.

"Who are – you – no one's supposed to be here today!" She began shuffling toward Margot, her little footsteps echoing down the corridor. "All appointments cancelled, family emergency. Out you go, dearie, 'e'll be back in a couple of weeks." The stout little lady, gray curls bouncing daintily, began to usher Margot back out the door.

"No," Margot protested. "No, no, I haven't got an appointment. But it's very urgent, I'm here to see Judge Laudin. It's a matter of utmost importance!" She shook the woman off and turned back to face her defiantly. The woman scrutinized her, then said, with a sympathetic but cross tone, "The Judge is in Marseilles until further notice. 'is daughter took ill, 'e wont be back for a while, dear."

"Oh…" Margot's face fell. "But please, I have to speak to him as soon as I can." The woman studied her for a moment, then sighed.

"Oh, come with me."

When Margot arrived home that night, she was feeling defeated. The motherly little woman, who turned out to be the housekeeper of the manor, allowed Margot to write a letter to the judge, into which she poured her passionate plea for help against the injustice and cruelty in the city. The letter, said the housekeeper, would be given to him the second he returned, but Margot didn't know when that would be, or if she had even convinced him in the letter.

She flopped down on her bed, tired and irritated. Little did she know, her evening was about to get a lot worse.

"Daughter!" Her father's voice called up. It had a pleasant air – they had company. Warily, Margot stood up, fixed her hair, and cautiously made her way down the stairs, adjusting her clothes as she went – she had worn one of her finest gowns, a deep blue satin with gold trim, to impress the judge. Now they felt wrinkled and uncomfortable. As she descended, she heard the murmur of male voices. Immediately, she began to dread the worst, and as she arrived at the foot of the final flight, her heart dropped into her stomach – she was right.

"Captain, you remember my daughter Margot."

"Of course, _Monsieur_, how could I forget." The Captain stood, a head above her father and his steely eyes flashing over her. He was dressed in his usual all black and his slick ponytail and coarse beard immediately made Margot want to wince. In fact, she wanted to run back upstairs, but that wasn't about to happen. Coming all the way down and into the room, she straightened her spine and shot her lush blue eyes right into his.

"Captain," she acknowledged, coldly.

"Well, I'm needed in my study," chirped Marchelier before shooting Margot a powerful look and exiting swiftly. The tension in the room shot up immeasurably.

"What?" Margot asked, simply, after a pause. The Captain smiled, and opened his hands, questioningly.

"I mean you no harm. Why do you look to me as though I am an enemy?"  
Margot was so taken aback, she let out a sharp laugh.

"Why? _Why_? You –" She caught herself – she didn't want to push him to get mean with her again. "Why are you here, _Monsieur le Captain_?"  
"Just as before, I am here to see you. And to ask you…" he moved closer to her. "… to be my bride, _mademoiselle_." He said it almost tenderly. Margot felt as though she had woken up in a completely different world.  
"Why… why on earth would I accept such a request?"  
"Because, _mademoiselle_, we are an excellent match. I can provide for you." He began to strut slowly around the room, examining the pieces in it. "You are the daughter of a prominent businessman. I can keep you in the style you are accustomed to. Also," he returned to her and looked up at her with a smirk. "You are the most beautiful woman in all of Paris."  
Margot stared. What?

"You are too kind, Captain, but my answer is no. Thank you." She turned to return up the stairs, but again she felt a harsh grip on her wrist, and her whole body was wrenched off of the stairs and onto his level. She was shocked at how incredibly strong he was. He yanked her close and wrapped a meaty hand around her waist, holding her tightly, his fingers still bruising her wrist. She looked up, frightened, and felt his hot, unpleasant breath on her face. He laughed quietly.  
"Your answer is yes."

"It. Is. _Not_." Margot growled through gritted teeth and struggled against him, but he was too strong.

"The answer is yes, _mademoiselle_, or your gypsy lover is dead."

Margot's blood ran cold, and she stopped struggling.

"My… I don't…"

"I know that you are in love with the king of the gypsies, foolish woman. And I know where he hides all the rest of his vermin. You will marry me, or he is dead. They all are dead."

Margot was numb.

"If you know where they are," she whispered, not knowing what to believe. "Why wouldn't you just kill them all now?"

He laughed again.

"I know you think so little of me, _mademoiselle_, but I am no fool. I know how to get what I want. That is why I am the most powerful man in Paris."  
"You are not!" His hand left her waist and grasped her face at the cheeks. She felt humiliated.

"You would be wise, foolish girl, to believe what I say. You will tell your filthy lover that you are mine, and you will marry me. Or they are all dead. You know I speak the truth."  
With horror, she looked up into his eyes and saw no kindness. She knew he was right. With a shove, he released her and strode out powerfully. Margot collapsed on the stairs, barely able to breathe. Here it was: Marry the Captain or lose Clopin. Lose everyone. As the darkness closed in around her, she began to weep.


	18. Chapter 18: An Unlikely Friendship

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The night air was crisp as Quasimodo peered down at the illuminated streets of Paris. Spring brought festivals and frivolity, and celebrations rich with light and culture. He marked the scurrying children playing in the newly-fallen dark as their parents corralled them toward home for supper and sleep. He smiled as mothers smilingly pulled their dirty, exhausted, perfectly contented sons and daughters away from the puppet shows and the markets and into the night.  
As it usually did around this time, a heavy sadness began to settle in his chest. He had seen a glimpse of the outside world, and what it would feel like to move freely amongst those down there, accepted – almost embraced.

He ran his hand through his hair and turned away from the lights, slowly wandering back into the belltower. He had been a fool to think that ways of the world could be changed. Things were worse than ever. Even looking down at the happy families in the coy spring air, he could sense the unrest and the dissonance. Something was coming. Some great explosion of communal feeling, even bigger than the riot months ago that had seen the cathedral consumed in flames.  
His dragging footsteps echoed in the tower. He was quite alone now. The Archdeacon had healed greatly under his care, and had been well enough to move to a hospital on the other side of the city. He was pleased for the Archdeacon but missed the company.

Suddenly, though, he was not alone. He heard hurried footsteps ringing up the staircase, heralding the flustered, blustering woman who all at once burst into the room.

"_Mademoiselle Marchelier_?"  
"Quasimodo!" Margot caught her breath and wearily tried to flatten her hair, which had turned wild in the climb. "I'm sorry to intrude, I hope I haven't – that is I didn't mean to – good gracious _God_ those are a lot of stairs!"

Quasimodo rushed forward with a chair, which she gratefully slumped into.

"What are you doing here at night?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I… well… no, to be honest," she managed to get out between gasps of breath. "I need your help."

He was bewildered. He hadn't had more than a few conversations with the girl, and yet here she was, something of a mess, asking for his help.

"Of – of course. How can I help, _mademoiselle_?"

"I'm so sorry, I know we hardly know each other," she exclaimed, echoing his thoughts, "but I feel in over my head, and you're the only one I can trust. Mimi and her family is in hiding, and I can't talk to Esmerelda or Phoebus or Clopin or anyone at all about this." She was close to weeping, but she did not. "But you are wise, and good, and have helped those I love more than anyone in the world, and I need your help." She looked directly into his eyes, and he gave her a soft, comforting smile.

"Anything, _mademoiselle_."

She stayed for quite a while and told Quasimodo the whole story –The details of falling in love with Clopin, the Court of Miracles, her father, and finally, the Captain of the Guard. She worried for a moment that telling him all this would make him wistful or sad, and perhaps he was, but he listened intently.

In actuality, he loved having these places described. He did, indeed, yearn for more than just pictures being painted in his mind, but for now, he would settle for storytelling.

With disdain and fright, she relayed to him the Captain's words and threats.

"He says that he will kill Clopin if I do not marry him, and I believe it." As she finished, there was a long, heavy silence as the two of them sat, pondering the unhappy decision before them. "I need your help. I need to know the right thing to do."  
"Margot," he said simply, feeling comfortable with her, "I can't tell you the right thing to do."

"Please," she begged. "I know what I want to do, but I'm afraid that I know what I have to do, too."

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"I want to run away!" She stood up and paced, anxiously. "I want to marry the man I love, I want to give him children, I want to live amongst the people close to me, and I want to be happy!"

Quasimodo let the words hang in the air, as though they had just been submitted for judgment.

"And what must you do?"

Margot was facing away from him, and didn't look back at him. She let one tear fall before swallowing them.  
"I must marry him."  
Quasimodo breathed and thought for a moment.

"I know it breaks your heart, but I think you are right."


	19. Chapter 19: The Gypsy Moon

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Marchelier was surrounded by sound. In his study, a warm fire crackled, popped and groaned. The rain clattered against the windowpane, and there was a whisper of thunder in the distance. It was unseasonably cold outside and the gray-blue afternoon light halfheartedly made its way in through the windows. It was a grim day.

With a furrowed brow, he stood up and moved to the doorway. Across the hall, he saw his daughter reading aloud to Toby as he tended to the drawing room fire. Her soft murmur was listless and her face looked pallid. Her eyes were creased as they strained in the dim light and for a moment he saw a glimpse of her mother.  
He wondered why she looked so drained. She had been so emotionally extreme the last few months; he assumed it was simply the nature of a young girl. But now something was wrong. His jaw gripped as he thought of the Captain of the Guard. She loved him, he was sure of it. Perhaps she was disappointed in her love.

Something in the back of his mind wondered if he had hurt her somehow. But as he looked at her, he realized he might never know. There was a wall between his daughter and himself that he did not know how to scale.

That night the storm cleared to give way to a sunset with colors so electric, one only sees the likes of them after the sky has exhausted itself with rain and thunder. As the sun made its final disappearance, Margot found herself moving through the graveyard to find Clopin. She was holding every muscle tight to keep from shaking with anxiety, and moved quickly to stop herself from turning back. Tonight was the night. She was going to talk to Clopin. She didn't know what she was going to say… she had spent the entire day running through things in her head. "I'm marrying the Captain." "I want to marry you, but we must leave Paris at once." "I love you." That one got a lot of repetition. Her palms were sweating, her mouth was dry, and for the life of her, she had no idea what was about to happen, and-  
Suddenly, something light hit her in the back of the head. With a shriek, she reached back and wheeled around, scanning the graveyard. She felt something rough tangled in her hair and pulled it out, finding it to be a small twig. She furrowed her brow at it and looked around again, getting nervous.  
"My goodness, we are jumpy tonight." Her eyes darted to the source of the voice as Clopin himself swung around the corner of a sepulcher and leaned his tall frame jauntily against its stony wall. She smiled before she could help herself. Through the twilight, she could see he had an eyebrow cocked and was biting back a grin.

"Clopin you…" she laughed, calming herself. "You just startled me."  
He put his hands into his pockets and moved toward her, still looking amused. She couldn't help but feel a gasp of admiration catch in her chest – his lanky body was draped in a peasant shirt that hung loose over trousers, and his arms looked muscular under the thin white material.

He came within reach and reached out a cinnamon hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.  
"Hey," she scolded. "You threw a twig at me, _bête monstre_!"

"I'm sorry," he looked mock-apologetic. "I'm a fiend. What can I say, you're too good for me."

She smiled, then remembered.

"Clopin, please, can we sit. There are things we must talk about."

She could see that seriousness was nowhere on his radar this evening. He was gazing down at her, that playful smile on his lips, clearly not hearing a word. He picked up her hands and began kissing them.

"Oh, dear, _ma petite choufleur_, you are distressed. How can one so beautiful be so distressed on a night like this?"

The night was indeed intoxicating. The river was not too far away and frogs in the cemetery sang the song of spring as the bright moon peered down on them.

"No, please," she felt as though she could cry as she wrestled her hands away from him gently. "Please don't do that, I'm trying to talk to you about—"  
He delicately placed a finger on her lips and she stopped, eyebrows raised. With a confident half smile, he held her gaze and let his hand slide down to her hand. He grasped it and began leading her away. Bewildered, she followed wordlessly. Something about his eyes had told her where they were going.

After a few minutes, they came to a dark corner of the river. Upon it was a small riverboat, only big enough for two, with a canvas tent providing shelter atop it. It was lit by paper lanterns strung between the two main tentpoles. Margot gasped, wrapping her fingers tighter around Clopin's.  
"Did you do this?" She asked, breathlessly. He stopped and smiled back at her, before turning to face her and pulling her close. He moved his face close to hers so that the sides of their noses were gently touching, and breathed her in. Then he kissed her, softly at first, just a whisper of a kiss, before slowly smoothing his hands over her waist to her back and pulling her up against him. She felt a rush through her body as the kiss deepened. For a moment, she was lightheaded and powerless, the thought of the serious conversation they needed to have diminishing into the night with every moment.

Clopin pulled away and took her hands, holding her eye-contact and daring her to hold his. "Come," he said simply, and led her toward the boat.  
No one was along this stretch of the river, and there was no sound but the gentle slap of waves against the curved base of the boat. She followed him. It was a strange and new feeling. She felt almost possessed. She knew her brain was somewhere in her body, but for the life of her, she couldn't locate it if someone paid her. It was a blissful, hungry feeling. Her skin felt electric – even more so when he helped her into the boat, his hands on her waist firmly – a little more firmly than usual, and she was surprised to find she preferred it that way. He pulled back the canvas canopy to reveal the candle-lit inside of the boat, which housed pillows and blankets in rich, sensual gypsy colors.  
Suddenly, somewhere in the same ambiguous location as her brain, Margot became nervous. She knew what was to come, and it had never happened before. Thoughts shot through her head like droplets in a waterfall – What if she didn't know what to do, what if he didn't like what he saw, was it going to hurt, was it the right thing to do, what would all of Paris say? But she entered the boat without a second thought.  
Thankfully, she was shocked to find that she inherently knew to turn around and lower herself down onto the pillows, gazing up at him. He knelt in front of her and came forward, caressing her face and kissing her with deep enjoyment. She sank back into the pillows as he moved so that he was partially on top of her. This was a different kind of kissing all together, a kind that made the world around them blur. He sank forward, lowering his body against hers. It felt strong and warm and masculine, and she wondered to herself – as though watching herself from afar – how she ever managed to exist without the feeling of this body against her. It was a delicious feeling. Gently, he pulled away, and as their lips separated, they both inhaled deeply in a way that struck her, so that she found herself suddenly wanting to cry. He opened his eyes and watched hers flutter open, and they looked at each other. She could see plainly his feelings etched in the lean of his eyebrow, and the swallowing movement in his throat. His eyes were full with adoration. She was suddenly seized with the intense desire to be as close to him as humanly possible, to be within him, to surround him, to hold him so close that they became the same person. Her heart swelled and she fiercely kissed him. He responded, his hands grasping her hair, as he pressed against her hungrily. Her hands moved feverishly, like someone who had become suddenly blind desperately trying to define the world around her. In a blur, she felt the hair on his strong forearms, the thrill of his spine, the shape of his upper thigh.

He was deft – he had done this before, she thought to herself as together they removed his shirt. And yet she felt a strange pride of ownership. Something in his eyes told her that this was different to any other time, and she was right. She rested her head against his bare chest, kissing it and running her hands over his dark, masculine shock of chest hair. She couldn't believe how bold she was being, how easily and naturally it came.  
The boat moved sensually in the water, the waves gently whispering against the bough so that it swayed musically. As it moved slowly down the river, Margot abandoned all and any thought. Reality and reason were left in port. As she embraced the strong, warm, beautiful gypsy man that held her with such wonder and worship, she felt love in her chest, so sizeable that surely her ribs would break, her lungs would explode, her breath would vanish. It was a love that was pure, certain, and shared, and the gypsy moon shone down on the little boat in sacredness. Here was something beyond it all, and nothing she could do could withhold it.


	20. Chapter 20: Two Sentences

CHAPTER TWENTY

Paris smelled like the early swirls of summer. The warm, heady perfumed air had been gradually drifting in from the rolling, floral countryside hills and now permeated the streets of the city. It was waking up.  
So thought Clopin as he wandered through said perfumed streets. He hadn't brazenly strolled anywhere central in a while, let alone with his pack of puppets on his back, but he was feeling somewhat invincible today. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of lilacs and freshly baked bread. The streets were full of people enjoying the weather, and from somewhere, singing could be heard – probably snaking its way out of a cracked pub window.

Because of the sensational weather, Clopin was not alone – other gypsies had been testing the waters and there seemed to be more of them today than ever. There were no spectacles made, but he tipped his feathered cap to more than a few on his way to the square, and they smiled in return. The guards still peopled the streets, and though they watched every gypsy with a harsh eye, no weapons were raised, and that was a very big step.

With his shirtsleeves rolled up to display his tanned cinnamon forearms and one hand jauntily in his pocket, Clopin was the picture of summer joviality. And he had every reason to be. Every few steps, he suppressed a full-blown grin. His mind was full of Margot. The glean of her golden hair catching the early morning sunbeams that gently danced through the canvas flaps of the boat's tent; the smell of her neck and the smooth, supple feel of her skin… and the way it was dappled with unaristocratic, wild freckles. And his favorite part – her secret fire. She was lovable and sweet and young, it was true, but underneath that burned something sultry and wise and utterly gypsy. He could drink it in all day.

And it seemed that the whole city was celebrating for him – for them! He made his way into the square, weaving through the people. There was a crowd gathered in front of the cathedral – a perfect time to put on an impromptu puppet show, he thought! He went to his usual spot, dropped his pack, and unloaded his pop-up puppet stand. It was much cruder than his cart, but it would have to do. Hopping up on the platform, he called out, "Ladies and gentlemen, _mesdames et monsieurs –"_

_ "Mesdames et monsieurs_!" A booming voice cried out, drowning his own crisp tenor. Disgruntled, Clopin's head snapped toward the cathedral. The voice carried on, but he could not hear. Everyone in the square began to migrate toward the unseen speaker. Clopin furrowed his brow – he was not used to losing an audience before he had even properly begun his show. He shoved his hands in his pockets and threw a long leg out to theatrically step off the platform, and began to follow the crowd. Finally, he got into the thick of the crowd. Being the only brown face in a sea of very porcelain ones, he didn't ask anyone what was going on. Rather, he listened. Within seconds, it came.

"What is everyone crowded for?" Asked a woman in front of him to a fishmonger next to her.

"It's the guard, they're making an announcement of some sort!"

Clopin's ears pricked up. On one hand, anything the guard had to say was laughable to him. On the other hand, they did hold the fate of his people in their hands, he begrudgingly conceded. He deftly slipped through the crowd to get closer. A smallish man was stood in front of everyone, speaking with great authority. Several guards stood behind him, including the Captain of the Guard. Clopin bristled with deep hatred.

"Many of you have noticed," the man was saying, "that the streets have been safer these past few months." Clopin rolled his eyes. The man continued. "The gypsies have been controlled, and it is all thanks to the new Captain of the Guard."

Some in the crowd applauded. Clopin shrugged his shoulders.

"Ohh, yes, hurrah," he mumbled, putting on a high voice. The Captain smiled and stepped forward, taking the small man's place. It was almost comical how much bigger he was than the previous speaker.

"Thank you, Monsieur Babin." He cast a dark eye over the crowd. "And thank you all for gathering for this announcement. Though the gypsies are distinctly invasive in this fine city, we do strive to coexist peacefully." Clopin's brows clenched in bewilderment. "I have been assured that they will behave themselves, and in return, myself and the guard are allowing the gypsies to lawfully open their stalls again, with restrictions." Murmurs of mixed emotion rustled through the crowd before developing in a quiet but happy smattering of applause and approval – presumably from the people who didn't applaud the first time, Clopin thought to himself with raised eyebrows. Why was the Captain being so… reasonable?

"I am honored to continue captaining the Parisian guard, and I am pleased to announce, that I will continue to do so, with this beautiful woman at my side."

Clopin's mouth went dry. He couldn't believe he was seeing it, but he was. As the Captain spoke, he reached behind him, and seemed to magic a woman out of the ether. Revealed from behind the guards was a tall, curvaceous blonde woman in an ornate dress, who stepped to the Captain's side and held his had dutifully. She even smiled. And it was Margot.

"The Archdeacon, who is making a stellar recovery, has conceded to wed Mademoiselle Margot Marchelier and myself here at the Notre Dame, in a week's time. The ceremony will be open, and we hope you can all join us!" The Captain turned to Margot and his smile faltered for a moment as a secret flicker of anger passed across his face. He squeezed Margot's hand, harder.

Margot stepped forward, about to speak. Clopin did not know what to do, or what to think. He was reeling, certain he would fall to the floor, but at the same time, he was frozen in place, staring hard at the woman that 36 hours before was wrapped around him, head on his bare chest, her breath rhythmically dancing with his as they dozily drifted between sleep and blissful waking. Waiting for what she would say. Waiting for her to deny it, or to cry out for help, or anything that would unite reality with whatever he was seeing.

But she didn't.

"I look forward to seeing you all. The archdeacon assures me that the event will include the entirety of Paris."

Two sentences, and everything Clopin had thought in the last few months burnt up, like a thin scrap of paper. Margot and the Captain turned away and disappeared into the crowd of guards. The crowd dissipated, feverishly talking about the impending festive nuptials. Clopin could not move.

"What?" he asked aloud. His face crumpled in painful confusion as he stared at the façade of the Notre Dame. Looking around for the universe to give him some sort of indication of what exactly he had just witnessed, he caught site of a flash of blonde hair and a beautiful blue dress, and grasped onto it with his eyes. Across the square, Margot turned around, and their eyes met. The shock and pain that she felt upon seeing him there registered. Her neck muscles tensed and her eyes widened. They held scarring eye contact for a moment that seemed to last for a long time. In that time, he asked her, with his eyes, why. She clenched her jaw, turned away, and then she was gone. And Clopin did not move for a long while.

**Hey guys! I'm so sorry I've been AWOL and this story has taken so long to finish… hard to believe I started it almost three years ago! But I do promise that I WILL finish this story! It is outlined, and you have my word that within six chapters, the story will be finished.**

Thank you so much for staying with me, and I SO appreciate the reviews! Please let me know what you think so far.


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